Complete summary of chapter 1 Oblomov. The history of the creation of "Oblomov"

1

32-year-old landowner Ilya Ilyich Oblomov lives in St. Petersburg on the funds that his estate brings him - the village of Oblomovka. He abandoned his service in the department a long time ago and lies in his dressing gown on the sofa all day.

That day he woke up unusually early - at 8 o'clock in the morning. The day before, he received a letter from Oblomovka, from the headman, who complained about crop failures, arrears, a decrease in income, and so on. It was necessary to take some measures, but the very thought of this gave Oblomov unpleasant sensations. And then the servant Zakhar once again reminds the master that the owner of the apartment building where they lodge demands to vacate the apartment he needed for some reason.

2

Volkov came for a visit - a fashionably dressed young man of about 25 years old. He is delighted with secular life and cannot understand how Oblomov has been sitting at home all his life. Oblomov's indistinct explanations (in one well-known house at receptions everyone talks about everything, in another everything is about one thing) Volkov is not convinced.

Volkov left, Sudbinsky came. Once he served with Oblomov, and now he has received a promotion and is going to marry.

The next guest is the writer Penkin, with whom Oblomov, perked up for a moment, is engaged in literary disputes.

Oblomov tries to tell each of the three guests about his two misfortunes, but no one wants to listen to him.

Finally Alekseev arrives, a small inconspicuous little man. He is in no hurry and listens to Oblomov, but he cannot help in any way.

3

Tarantiev breaks in - Oblomov's countryman and the complete opposite of Alekseev: huge and rude. But it turns out that only these two - Alekseev and Tarantiev - constantly and for a long time visit Oblomov, the rest of the acquaintances run in only for a minute. However, Oblomov does not like these two either, they annoy him. Looking at them, this is not the first time he remembers the only person dear to him - Stolz, who is about to return from distant wanderings.

4

After listening to Oblomov’s story about his two misfortunes, Tarantiev immediately proposes decisive measures: go to Oblomovka for the summer and deal with the “fraudster” elder himself, and then move to the outskirts to his house, Tarantiev, godfather, who takes one and a half times less for an apartment, what Oblomov pays now. However, Ilya Ilyich, apparently suspecting Tarantiev himself of some kind of fraud (and he gave rise to this more than once), does not accept his advice, continuing to lament about Stolz, whom, as it turns out, Tarantyev hates fiercely.

5

Discussions about how Oblomov came to such a life in the twelfth year of his non-stop stay in the capital.

A provincial, brought up in a warm domestic circle, he was never able to accept the strict discipline and soulless atmosphere of bureaucratic life. At the very first official mistake he made, frightened by the wrath of the boss, Oblomov said he was sick, and then completely refused to serve.

6

But even at home, Ilya does not find himself, because from childhood he had no interests, and in his youth he looked at studying at the university as a punishment. He never read anything in excess of what was given, he had no additional questions, even when he did not understand everything from what he was taught. For him, studies had nothing to do with life. Between science and life for him lay an abyss, which he did not try to cross. And the plan for the transformation of the estate, over which Oblomov had been thinking all these twelve years, had nothing to do with the field of knowledge and decisions, but with the field of dreams, freely flowing into the field of fantasies about how he, Oblomov, would become a famous commander or no less famous thinker.

7

Fifty-year-old Zakhar is a match for Oblomov. The unconditional devotion of the servant to the master - the only dignity of Zakhar - was combined in him with the same, like Oblomov himself, a fantastic view of the world, where there is nothing better than Oblomovka and where Oblomov dominates, whom, nevertheless, God himself ordered his servant to rob on trifles, and keep in eternal dirt.

8

Oblomov's skirmish with Zakhar about unpaid bills is interrupted by the appearance of Oblomov's attending physician, who was called to a neighbor and decided to visit another patient at the same time. Oblomov complains of stomach, heartburn, etc. The doctor predicts Oblomov's death in 2-3 years from a stroke if he continues to live in St. Petersburg and eat fatty foods. We must go abroad immediately! The doctor's advice terrifies Oblomov, and then Zakhar again pesters with a message about the manager's demand to immediately move out of the apartment. Reproaching Zakhar for insensitivity, Oblomov brings him up and goes into hysterics himself. Tired of an excess of thoughts and emotions, Oblomov falls asleep.

9: "Oblomov's Dream"

Ilya suddenly dreamed of all his childhood and all his youth in Oblomovka: beloved and loving parents, their quiet, unhurried being; nanny with her terrible tales, which always ended well, not because the hero defeated evil, but because the good sorceress took him to her country, where there are no worries and sorrows. Ilya also dreams of the German neighbor Stolz, to whom he was sent "for training." And the son of Stolz, the same age as Ilya, who either suggested lessons to him, or made translations for him.

10

While Oblomov is sleeping, Zakhar tells the neighbor's servants stories about his master in the yard.

11

When Zakhar returns home at the beginning of the fifth, Oblomov is still sleeping. Zakhar unsuccessfully tries to wake him up. And then there is Stolz.

Part two

1

From a German father, Stoltz received a business-like German upbringing, from a Russian mother - a gentle Russian one. His mother died early, and his father forbade his son to live with him after graduation from the university and sent him to St. Petersburg.

2

After serving for a short time, Stoltz retired, went into commerce and became rich; tried to live simply, looked at life realistically, avoided fantasies. Being the complete opposite of Oblomov in everything, Stolz sincerely loved him for his simplicity, kindness and gullibility, for those warm memories of childhood and youth that connected the two friends.

3

Stolz, outraged by Oblomov's recumbent life, forces him to go out into the world.

4

This was repeated all week, and finally Oblomov rebelled. He insists that the world is full of petty fuss, and Stolz unexpectedly agrees with him, but asks to formulate his ideal. In response, Oblomov actually retells his dream - everything that happened to both grandfathers and fathers. New - only Norma's cavatina from Bellini's opera, which must be played in the evenings in the living room. For Stolz, this is already a clue: he promises to introduce Oblomov to Olga Ilyinskaya, who perfectly performs this aria.

5

Having introduced Oblomov to Olga, Stolz went abroad. Ilya rented a dacha next to the dacha of Olga and her aunt. The prehistory of such a decision took only two evenings: on the first, Oblomov heard Olga singing, on the second, he confessed his love to her.

6

Ashamed of his involuntarily escaped confession, Ilya avoids meeting with Olga - and suddenly accidentally meets her in the park. There is a new explanation: trying to apologize for the "accidentally escaped" words of love, Ilya, to Olga's pleasure, only confirms the non-randomness of these words.

7

Ilya begins to guess that Olga is not indifferent to him. He both hopes and fears to be deceived in his hope.

8

A strange change is taking place with Olga: thanks to her feeling for Ilya, she suddenly immediately understood and accepted life in all its complexity. But the feeling itself lingered for a while. In bewilderment, Ilya stops visiting Olga. He clearly gravitates towards his former way of life and declares to Zakhar his desire to return to the city. By chance, Zakhar meets Olga and ingenuously informs her about the state and decision of Ilya. Olga, through Zakhar, appoints Ilya a date in the park, where she makes him understand the seriousness of her feelings for him.

9

Since then, there have been no sudden changes in Olga, and her daily meetings with Ilya consisted entirely of frank conversations about love, which both experienced deeply and passionately. “Love is a difficult school of life,” thought Ilya.

10

A wave of doubt again swept over Oblomov: Olga does not love him, they do not like such people! She was ready for love, waiting for her - and he just turned up under the arm, by mistake! He writes her a letter expressing these thoughts directly. A new date, a new explanation, an ever-increasing physical rapprochement again return everything to its place.

11

The feelings of both reach a dangerous stage; acquaintances are already looking at them strangely ... Finally, Ilya decides to make an official proposal.

12

Oblomov's decisive explanation again begins with the expression of doubts and fears. Olga withstood all this without losing her dignity for a moment, and already got up to leave. Only then Ilya said the words she had long expected. Both are extremely happy.

Part Three

1

That same morning, Tarantiev is impatiently waiting for the happy Oblomov at his dacha. It turns out that on the day of moving to the dacha, Ilya signed a contract for renting an apartment, which Tarantiev slipped him. To the threats of the surprised Tarantiev, Ilya responds calmly, but also, as it were, menacingly. With the support of Zakhar Oblomov, he manages to quickly get rid of the uninvited guest.

2

Returning to Olga, Ilya wants to go and announce to her aunt about the official proposal, but Olga does not let him. First, he must finish urgent matters and decide where they will live after the wedding: after all, there is still no apartment in the city, and the old house in Oblomovka needs repair. The next day, Ilya goes to the city, but does not manage to do anything of his plans, except for a visit to the widow Pshenitsyna (Godfather Tarantiev), whom he unsuccessfully tried to convince that he no longer needs her apartment.

3

At the end of August, Olga moved to the city. Ilya visits her, and she reproaches him for things that have not been done. Meanwhile, Oblomov nevertheless moves in with Pshenitsyna and manages to appreciate her pies. A conversation with her brother that soon he will not need an apartment only leads to the fact that he demands to pay the entire amount under the contract - 1354 rubles. 28 k. Oblomov does not have that kind of money.

4

Ilya looks at apartments in the center: for one they ask for 4 thousand, for another 6 thousand. Meanwhile, the position of Ilya and Olga in the world is becoming more and more ambiguous. And already even Zakhar brings Oblomov a rumor about his imminent wedding. Ilya refutes everything, tells everyone to be silent and no longer believes that he wants to get married: such expenses!

5

A letter arrives: Olga invites Ilya on a date to the Summer Garden. She comes alone, under a veil. They are boating on the Neva. “We have gone far,” Oblomov is frightened. Olga agrees: now she is convincing Ilya to officially talk with her aunt, and he, on the contrary, asks to postpone this conversation until all pressing issues are resolved.

6

Saying sick, Oblomov stopped going to Olga.

7

Without waiting for Ilya, Olga, despising secular decency, herself comes to him. Oblomov again perked up, that same evening he was with Olga at the theater and after the theater he drank tea with Olga and her aunt.

8

A letter came from Oblomov's neighbor on the estate, to whom he hoped to transfer control by proxy. This is a denial. Moreover, the neighbor confirms the words of the elder: Oblomov will face big losses. His hands drop: it is impossible to marry. It would be possible to borrow money, but he does not dare to do this either.

9

For advice, Ilya turns to his brother Pshenitsyna. He recommends him a colleague who is ready to go to Oblomovka for a fee and arrange Oblomov's affairs.

10

Pshenitsyna's brother treats Tarantiev in a tavern, thanking him for the boobie tenant. “And staring at my sister! Do you understand what it smells like?"

11

Oblomov shows Olga a letter from the village, “reassures”: in a year everything will be settled, and then ... Olga loses consciousness, and when she comes to, she drives Oblomov away. Her last question is: “Who cursed you? What ruined you? And he replies: "Oblomovism!"

12

Oblomov returned home at night, not remembering where he wandered all day. Zakhar put on him a dressing gown repaired by Pshenitsyna, the same one that he wanted to throw away when he met Olga. The first snow came - "everything fell asleep." Oblomov fell ill with a fever.

Part four

1

A year has passed, and this year has changed Agafya Pshenitsyna the most: she fell in love with Oblomov.

2

On Oblomov's name day, Stolz unexpectedly appears. Olga told him everything, and she now lives abroad, rejoicing that she did not make a mistake by marrying Ilya. Stolz undertakes to save Oblomov from his brother Pshenitsyna, who had robbed him, and his accomplice.

3

Brother Pshenitsyna and Tarantiev are acutely worried about their defeat: Stolz took Oblomovka for rent, now he will bring them to clean water. They conceived revenge - to take full power over Oblomov: "He often got into the habit of visiting his sister." Their plan is blackmail and Oblomov signing a loan letter addressed to Pshenitsyna.

4

Narration about what happened to Olga and Stolz even before his appearance at Oblomov's birthday party and what he kept silent about in a conversation with him. It turns out that having accidentally met Olga abroad, Stoltz was amazed at the change that had taken place in her, listened to her confession - and made her an offer.

5

Another year and a half passed after those name days - and Stolz again visited Oblomov. During this time, he completely impoverished, because Pshenitsyna's brother carried out his insidious plan, leaving no money to either Oblomov or his sister. Then Agafya began to pawn her own things in order to feed Oblomov.

6

Stolz is amazed at the poverty of his friend: after all, the estate began to generate income! Having learned about the mortgage letter, he tries to ask Agafya and quickly understands the essence of the matter.

7

Having received from Agafya a signature under the certificate that she had no monetary claims against Oblomov, Stolz suddenly appeared before his brother: “Your business will not end there.” The next day, brother Pshenitsyna was summoned by the head of his department and demanded to resign in order to avoid a scandal, and Oblomov quarreled with Tarantiev forever.

8

Stolz and Olga live in a secluded estate in the Crimea, they have a daughter. That vague dream is coming true, for the sake of which Stoltz studied the laws of the heart and protected his own heart from everything accidental and superficial. And when Olga has "eternal" questions and doubts, he knows how to resolve them. Together they remember Oblomov: they will not leave him, unless an abyss opens between them and poor Ilya! Olga gets a promise from her husband: when they are in St. Petersburg, they will visit Ilya together.

9

Oblomov also realized his ideal by marrying Pshenitsyna: everything in his life now resembles the old Oblomovka. They had a boy, who was named Andryusha in honor of Stolz.

Oblomov's happy life is interrupted by an apoplexy, which the doctor once predicted to him. Agafya carefully nurses her husband.

Here is Stolz himself, who has not seen Ilya for five years. He is amazed; for him, this life of a friend is a swamp that has hopelessly engulfed him. Having learned that Olga is waiting at the gate for her husband in the carriage and also wants to enter, Ilya asks Andrey not to let her into the house. "Don't forget my Andrey!" - were Oblomov's last words addressed to Stolz.

Stolz goes to Olga and says that she cannot go there.

Has the abyss opened up? Yes, what is going on there?

Oblomovism! Andrey answered gloomily.

10

Another five years have passed, and Agafya has been widowed for three years. Ilya Ilyich, having experienced a second apoplexy, soon died: without pain and torment, as if a clock that had been forgotten to start had stopped. Seven years lived by Agafya with Ilya and flew by like an instant, shed a quiet light on her whole life, and she had nothing more to wish for, nowhere to go. Her son from his first marriage graduated from the course of science and entered the service, her daughter got married, Andryusha was begged for upbringing by the Stoltsy.

11

Stolz and his literary friend, having nothing to do, are examining the beggars on the porch. Suddenly, in one old beggar, Stoltz recognizes Zakhar. In the house of Pshenitsyna, where her brother and his family again settled, Zakhar did not have a place, and from the new masters, to whom the old stupid lackey tried to get settled, he was quickly expelled. Inviting Zakhar to his place, Stoltz returned to a conversation with a literary friend who became interested in the cause of the death of Oblomov, a man whom Zakhar remembered so warmly. And for the umpteenth time, Stoltz called it in one word: Oblomovism. "What it is?" - asked the writer. And Stoltz told him everything that the writer (apparently, Goncharov himself) retold in his novel.

Retelling plan

1. Lifestyle of Ilya Ilyich Oblomov.
2. The story of Stolz, a friend of Oblomov.
3. Stolz introduces Oblomov to Olga Ilyinskaya. Ilya Ilyich falls in love with her.
4. He finds out about her love for him and is happy.
5. The hero of the novel moves to the Vyborg side to Agafya Matveevna Pshenitsyna.
6. Ilya Ilyich gives up his dream of marrying Olga. explanation with her.
7. Olga agrees to marry Stolz.
8. Oblomov finds his happiness by marrying Agafya Matveevna. They have a son Andrei.
9. Oblomov dies. Stoltsy take on the upbringing of his son.

retelling

Part I
Chapter 1

In St. Petersburg, on Gorokhovaya Street, in one of the big houses, on the same morning as always, Ilya Ilyich Oblomov lies in bed - “a man of about thirty-two or three years old, but with the absence of any definite idea, any concentration in facial features ". Lying is Oblomov's usual state. His usual clothes are an old robe, which seems to have grown to Oblomov. This morning Oblomov woke up earlier than usual. He is concerned: the day before he received "a letter of unpleasant content from the headman." Oblomov is about to get up, but first he decides to drink tea. His servant Zakhar is used to living the same way as the master: the way he lives. Zakhar is old, he always wears a torn gray frock coat and a gray waistcoat. He likes this dress because it resembles the livery that "he once wore, seeing off the late gentlemen to church or on a visit." "The Oblomovs' house was once rich and famous in its side, but then, God knows why, everything became poorer, smaller, and finally quietly lost among the old noble houses."

Zakhar says that the bills must be paid, and the owner of the house demands - and not for the first time - that Oblomov move out of the apartment.

Chapter 2

A bell rings in the hall, and several visitors come to Oblomov one after another. They all invite Ilya Ilyich to ride in Ekateringof, where on the first of May the St. Petersburg secular society gathers. Oblomov tries to talk to each of them about his problems, but nobody cares. Only Alekseev listens to him.

Chapter 3

“... A desperate call is heard in the hall ... A man of about forty entered ... tall ... with large features ... with large bulging eyes, thick-lipped ... It was Mikhei Andreevich Tarantyev, Oblomov's fellow countryman." Tarantiev is a striker and cunning, he knows everything, but at the same time “as twenty-five years ago he decided to work as a scribe in some office, so in this position he lived to gray hair. The fact is that Tarantiev was a master only to speak ... "

Alekseev and Tarantiev are Oblomov's most frequent visitors. They come to him to drink, eat and smoke good cigars. Other guests come in for a minute. Oblomov, “on the heart of one person” is Andrei Ivanovich Stolz, whom he is looking forward to.

Chapter 4

Tarantiev, knowing that after the death of his parents, Oblomov remained the only heir to three hundred and fifty souls, he is not at all opposed to joining a very tasty morsel, especially since he quite rightly suspects that Oblomov's elder steals and lies much more than reasonable limits. He offers Ilya Ilyich to move to his godfather, on the Vyborg side. Oblomov recalls the elder's letter, and Tarantiev calls him a swindler and a liar, advises him to immediately replace him, go to the village and deal with everything himself. “Ah, if only Andrei would come soon! Oblomov sighs. “He would have settled everything ... ” Tarantiev indignantly reprimands Ilya Ilyich that he is ready to exchange a Russian person for a German. But Oblomov abruptly cuts him off and does not allow him to scold Stolz, a person close to him, with whom they grew up and studied together. Tarantiev, and then Alekseev leave.

Chapters 5 and 6

Oblomov "almost lay down in an armchair and, having become sad, plunged either into drowsiness or into thoughtfulness." The author tells about the life of Oblomov: "a nobleman by birth, a collegiate secretary by rank, has been living without a break for the twelfth year in St. Petersburg." At first, having arrived in St. Petersburg, he somehow tried to integrate into the life of the capital, “... he was full of various aspirations, he kept hoping for something, waiting for a lot ... But days went by days ... thirty years passed, and he did not advance a single step in any field ... But he was still ... preparing to start life ... His life was divided into two halves; one consisted of work and boredom - these were his synonyms; the other - from peace and peaceful fun ... He believed that ... visiting a public place is by no means an obligatory habit ... "

Oblomov somehow served two years and resigned. And so Ilya Ilyich lay down on his sofa. Only Stolz managed to stir him up. But Stolz often left St. Petersburg, and Oblomov "again plunged head over heels into his loneliness and despondency."

Chapter 7

Zakhar is over fifty, he is passionately devoted to his master, but at the same time he constantly lies to him, robs him a little, slanders him, sometimes dissolves “some kind of unheard-of story about the master.” He is unkempt, awkward, lazy. In his youth, Zakhar served as a footman in a manor house in Oblomovka, then he was assigned by an uncle to Ilya. He finally got lazy and put on airs.

Chapter 8

Oblomov again tends to "bliss and dreams." He imagines the reorganization of his village house, his life there. But then the bell rings again. It was the doctor who came to inquire about the health of Ilya Ilyich. Oblomov complains of indigestion, heaviness in the pit of the stomach, and heartburn. The doctor says that if he continues to lie down, eat fatty and heavy food, then he will soon have a stroke. He advises Oblomov to go abroad, "to entertain himself with movements in the fresh air." The doctor leaves, and Oblomov again begins to quarrel with Zakhar. Finally, Oblomov, tired and exhausted, decides to take a nap until dinner.

Chapter 9

Oblomov's dream. In his sweet dream, Ilya Ilyich sees the past, long gone life in his native Oblomovka, where there is nothing wild, grandiose, where everything breathes calmness and serene sleep. Here they only eat, sleep, discuss the news that come to this region with a great delay; life flows smoothly, flowing from autumn to winter, from spring to summer, to complete its eternal circles again. Here, fairy tales are almost indistinguishable from real life, and dreams are a continuation of reality. Everything is peaceful, quiet and calm in this blessed land - no passions, no worries disturb the inhabitants of sleepy Oblomovka, where Ilya Ilyich spent his childhood. In front of him, in a dream, like living pictures, the three main acts of life pass in succession: births, weddings, funerals, then a motley procession of cheerful and sad christenings, name days, family holidays, incantations, breaking the fast, noisy dinners, related congresses, official tears and smiles stretches .

Everything happens according to established rules, but these rules affect only the outer side of life. A child is born - all the worries are that he grows up healthy, does not get sick, eats well; then they look for a bride and celebrate a merry wedding. Life goes on as usual until it ends with a grave.

Chapters 10, 11

While Oblomov is sleeping, Zakhar goes to gossip and take his soul at the gate with neighbor's lackeys, coachmen, women and boys. He first scolds his master, then rises to his defense and, having quarreled with everyone, goes to a pub. At the beginning of the fifth, Zakhar returns home and begins to wake up Ilya Ilyich. Barely waking up, Oblomov sees Stolz.

Part II
Chapter 1

Andrei Stoltz grew up in the village of Verkhlev, which was once part of Oblomovka. His father, a manager in the village, was an agronomist, technologist, teacher, studied at a university in Germany, traveled a lot, and ended up in Russia twenty years ago. Andrei's mother was Russian; he professed the Orthodox faith. Stolz was formed into a personality in many respects unusual thanks to a double upbringing received from a strong-willed, strong, cold-blooded German father and a Russian mother, a sensitive woman who forgot herself from life's storms at the piano.

Chapter 2

Stolz is the same age as Oblomov, but he is the exact opposite of his friend: “... he is constantly on the move: if society needs to send an agent to Belgium or England, they send him; you need to write some project or adapt a new idea to the case - choose it. In the meantime, he travels to the world and reads; when he has time - God knows. He goes to his goal, "bravely stepping through all obstacles." What attracts such a person to Oblomov? This is a "pure, bright and good beginning", which lies at the basis of Oblomov's nature.

Chapter 3

Stolz asks a friend about health, business. He listens to Ilya Ilyich’s complaints about “two misfortunes” with a smile, advises giving freedom to the peasants, says that he himself needs to go to the village. He is interested in where Oblomov happens, what he reads, what he does. Stolz himself came from Kyiv and in two weeks he will go abroad.

Chapter 4

Stolz wants to stir up Oblomov and takes him everywhere with him for a whole week. He protests, complains, argues, but obeys. Oblomov is struck by the gullibility and insignificance of the thoughts and concerns of the people he sees, the vanity and emptiness. He notices everything very subtly, criticizes skillfully, but ... "Where is our modest, labor path?" Stolz asked. Oblomov replied: “Yes, I’ll just finish ... the plan ...”

Chapter 5

Two weeks later, Stoltz leaves for England, taking the word from Oblomov that he will come to Paris and they will meet there. But Ilya Ilyich "did not leave either a month or three." Stolz writes him letter after letter, but receives no answer. Oblomov does not go because of Olga Ilyinskaya, whom Stolz introduced him to before his departure, bringing him to the house of Olga's aunt. In this girl, Stolz is bribed by "simplicity and natural freedom of sight, word, deed", Olga considers him her friend, although she is afraid - he is too smart, "too taller than her."

Chapter 6

During the visit, Oblomov arouses benevolent curiosity in Olga. He himself is shy, lost from her views. Returning home, he thinks about her all the time, draws a portrait of her in his memory. Oblomov is in love, he goes to her every day, rents a summer house opposite the one where Olga lives with her aunt. He confesses his love to Olga.

Chapter 7

In the meantime, Zakhar also found his happiness by marrying Anisya, a simple and kind woman. He suddenly realized that dust and dirt and cockroaches should be fought, not put up with. In a short time, Anisya puts Ilya Ilyich's house in order, extending her power not only to the kitchen, as was supposed at first, but throughout the house.

For several days Ilya Ilyich sits at home, suffering.

Chapter 8

Stolz, leaving, "bequeathed" Oblomov to Olga, asked to look after him, not allowing him to sit at home. And the girl draws up a detailed plan of how she will wean Oblomov to sleep after dinner, make him read the books and newspapers left by Stolz, and show him the goal. And suddenly it's a declaration of love. Olga doesn't know what to do. But at the next meeting, Oblomov asks for forgiveness for his confession and even asks Olga to forget about him, because this is not true ...

These words hurt Olga's pride. She feels insulted. And then Oblomov, unable to restrain himself, again starts talking about his feelings. She is happy, she is happy. It seems to Oblomov that Olga loves him, although doubts seize him.

Chapter 9

For several days Ilya Ilyich sits at home, suffering. And now Olga sends a letter with an invitation to come. She gives him hope. Oblomov revives. "In two or three weeks, they traveled all over the St. Petersburg environs." Olga herself does not understand whether she is in love with Oblomov, she only knows that "she did not love her father, mother, or nanny so much."

Chapter 10

Oblomov doubts again, but what if Olga's feeling is not love, but just a premonition of love? He writes her a letter about his doubts, but Olga convinces him that she loves her. Oblomov is happy.

Chapters 11 and 12

Another letter arrives from Stolz, but Oblomov again does not answer him. Oblomov notices that the neighbors look at him and Olga in a strange way. He is terrified that he will ruin the girl's reputation. He proposes to her, but notices that she meets the proposal without tears from unexpected happiness. Olga convinces him that she will never want to part with him. Oblomov is immensely happy.

Part III
Chapter 1

When Ilya Ilyich returns home, he finds Tarantiev there. Even before Oblomov rented a dacha, Tarantiev moved all his belongings to his godfather on the Vyborg side. He asks why he has not yet visited a new apartment, reminds Oblomov of a contract signed for a whole year and demands eight hundred rubles - six months in advance. Oblomov does not want to settle with Tarantiev's godfather, nor pay. He escorts the guest who has become unpleasant to him.

Chapter 2

Ilya Ilyich goes to Olga. He wants to tell Olga's aunt about the engagement. But Olga demands that he first deal with business, find a new apartment, write to Stolz.

Chapter 3

August is ending, the rains have begun, and Oblomov still lives in the country. There is nowhere to move, and I have to settle on the Vyborg side with Agafya Matveevna Pshenitsyna, the widow of a collegiate secretary. The hostess was in her thirties. She was very full and white in her face ... Her eyes were grayish-innocent, like the whole expression on her face. For three days Oblomov goes to Olga, on the fourth day it seems to him to go somehow uncomfortable. In the house of Agafya Matveevna, in front of him, imperceptibly at first, and then more and more clearly, the atmosphere of his native Oblomovka unfolds, that which Ilya Ilyich cherishes most of all in his soul.

Chapters 4, 5 and 6

Gradually, the entire economy of Oblomov passes into the hands of Pshenitsyna. A simple, unsophisticated woman, she begins to manage Oblomov's house, preparing delicious meals for him, establishing a life, and again the soul of Ilya Ilyich plunges into a sweet dream. Only occasionally does the peace and serenity of this dream explode with meetings with Olga, who is gradually disappointed in her chosen one. Rumors about the wedding of Oblomov and Olga Ilyinskaya are already being discussed between the servants of the two houses. Upon learning of this, Ilya Ilyich is horrified: in his opinion, nothing has yet been decided, and people are already transferring from house to house talking about what, most likely, will never happen.

Chapters 7 and 8

Days flow after days, and now Olga, unable to stand it, comes to Oblomov herself. He comes to make sure that nothing will wake him up from his slow sinking into his final sleep.

Chapter 9 and 10

Meanwhile, Ivan Matveevich Mukhoyarov, brother of Agafya Matveevna, with the help of Tarantiev, takes over the affairs of Oblomov on the estate, so thoroughly and deeply entangling Ilya Ilyich in his machinations that he is unlikely to be able to get out of them.

Chapters 11 and 12

There is a difficult conversation between Ilya Ilyich and Olga, farewell. And at that moment, Agafya Matveevna was also repairing Oblomov's dressing gown, which, it seemed, was beyond anyone's strength to repair. This becomes the last straw in the torment of Ilya Ilyich, who still mentally resisted - he falls ill with a fever.

Part IV
Chapter 1

A year after Oblomov’s illness, life flowed along its measured course: the seasons changed, Agafya Matveevna prepared delicious dishes for the holidays, baked pies for Oblomov, brewed coffee for him with her own hands, celebrated Ilyin’s Day with enthusiasm ... And suddenly Agafya Matveevna realized that she had fallen in love master.

Chapter 2

Andrei Stoltz comes to the Vyborg side and exposes the dark deeds of Mukhoyarov. Pshenitsyna renounces her brother, whom until quite recently she revered and even feared. Stolz tries to stir up Oblomov, but he fails, and they say goodbye.

Chapter 3

Tarantiev and Ivan Matveevich again conspire against Oblomov.

Chapter 4

Having experienced disappointment in her first love, Olga Ilyinskaya gradually gets used to Stolz, realizing that her attitude towards him is much more than just friendship. And Olga agrees to Stolz's proposal ...

Chapters 5, 6 and 7

Six months later, Stolz reappears on the Vyborg side. Again helps Ilya Ilyich get rid of Tarantiev. Then, without stirring up Oblomov, he leaves again.

Chapters 8 and 9

A few years later, Stoltz arrives in St. Petersburg. He finds Ilya Ilyich, who has become “a complete and natural reflection and expression of peace, contentment and serene silence. Looking, pondering his life and more and more settling in it, he finally decided that he had nowhere else to go, nothing to look for ... ”Oblomov found his quiet happiness with Agafya Matveevna, who gave birth to his son Andryusha. The arrival of Stolz does not disturb Oblomov: he only asks his old friend not to leave Andryusha.

“Eternal silence, lazy crawling from day to day quietly stopped the machine of life. Ilya Ilyich died, apparently, without pain, without torment, as if a clock that had been forgotten to start had stopped.

Chapter 10

And five years later, when Oblomov was no more, the house of Agafya Matveevna fell into disrepair and the wife of the ruined Mukhoyarov, Irina Panteleevna, began to play the first role in it, Andryusha was asked to raise Stoltsy.

Living in the memory of the late Oblomov, Agafya Matveevna focused all her feelings on her son: “She realized that she had lost, and her life shone, that God put her soul into her life and took it out again; that the sun shone in it and faded forever. She asks only to save money for Andryusha.

Chapter 11

And the faithful Zakhar in the same place, on the Vyborg side, where he lived with his master, now asks for alms. He was survived from the house of Agafya Matveevna Tarantiev, but he did not find a permanent place, so he was forced to beg.

Part 1 On Gorokhovaya Street, in one of the largest houses, the population of which would be enough for a whole county town, lives Ilya Ilyich Oblomov. He was a man of about thirty-two or three years of age, of medium height, of pleasant appearance, with dark gray eyes, but with no definite idea, no concentration in his features. The thought walked like a free bird across his face, fluttered in his eyes, settled on half-open lips, hid in the folds of his forehead, then completely disappeared, and then an even light of carelessness flickered all over his face ... Sometimes his look was darkened by an expression as if of fatigue and boredom; but neither fatigue nor boredom could for a moment drive away from his face the gentleness that was the dominant and basic expression not only of his face, but of his whole soul ... His movements, when he was even alarmed, were also restrained by softness and ... laziness. .. He was wearing a Persian robe, a real oriental robe...

very spacious, so that Oblomov could wrap himself in it twice ... Oblomov always went at home without a tie and without a waistcoat ... His shoes were long, soft and wide; when, without looking, he lowered his legs from the bed to the floor, he would certainly hit them right away ...

Lying down with Ilya Ilyich was neither a necessity, like a sick person or a person who wants to sleep, nor an accident, like someone who is tired, nor a pleasure, like a lazy person: this was his normal state. When he was at home - and he was almost always at home - he was always lying, and everything was always in the same room ... He had three more rooms, but he rarely looked in there ...

The room where Ilya Ilyich lay at first glance seemed beautifully decorated ... But the experienced eye of a person with pure taste, with one cursory glance at everything that was here, would only read a desire to somehow observe yesogit (lat.

Appearance) of inevitable decorum, if only to get rid of them ... On the walls, near the paintings, cobwebs saturated with dust were molded in the form of festoons; mirrors, instead of reflecting objects, could rather serve as tablets for writing on them, through the dust, some notes for memory. Carpets were stained.

There was a forgotten towel on the sofa; on the table, a rare morning, there was not a plate with a salt shaker and a gnawed bone that had not been removed from yesterday's dinner, and there were no bread crumbs lying around. If it were not for this plate, and not for a pipe just smoked leaning against the bed, or not for the owner himself lying on it, then one would think that no one lives here - everything was so dusty, faded and was generally devoid of life. traces of human presence." Oblomov woke up earlier than usual. He is very preoccupied: the day before he received "a letter from the headman of unpleasant content." He writes about "crop failure, arrears, a decrease in income, etc. ..

The headman sent such letters in previous years, and Oblomov several years ago "already began to create in his mind a plan for various changes and improvements," but that was all. And here it is again. It would be necessary to "think carefully, figure something out, write it down, and generally deal with this matter properly."

But first he will drink tea, and you can think while lying down. After tea, "he almost got up, even began to lower one leg out of bed ...". Oblomov calls Zakhar's servant.

That one appears. Zakhar is old, he always wears a torn gray frock coat and a gray waistcoat. He likes this clothes because it reminds of the livery that "he once wore when seeing the late gentlemen to church or to visit; and the livery in his memoirs was the only representative of the dignity of the Oblomov house.

Nothing more reminded the old man of the lordly, wide and quiet life in the wilderness of the village ... The Oblomov house was once rich and famous in its side, but then, God knows why, everything became poorer, smaller, and, finally, imperceptibly lost among the old noble houses ". Oblomov, thoughtfully, looks at Zakhar who has entered and cannot remember why he called him. A quarter of an hour later he calls Zakhar again and orders him to find the elder's letter, then he demands a handkerchief. The usual, everyday squabble begins.

Oblomov reproaches Zakhar for slovenliness and negligence. He does not accept reproaches: “If I don’t do anything ... I try, I don’t regret my life! And I erase the dust and sweep it almost every day ...” “There is nothing to talk about!

Ilya Ilyich objected, “you’d better clean up.” To which Zakhar replies that he would clean up more often, but the owner himself interferes with him - he sits at home all the time.

Oblomov is no longer glad that he started this conversation. He "would like it to be clean, but he would like it to be done somehow, imperceptibly, by itself ...". Time passes, and meanwhile Oblomov still has not got out of bed. It's almost eleven. And here is another misfortune: Zakhar reports that the butcher, the greengrocer, the laundress, etc., must pay the bills.

No more lending. Yes, in addition to everything else, the owner of the house demands - and not for the first time - that Oblomov move out of the apartment. Oblomov "is at a loss as to what to think about: about the elder's letter, about moving to a new apartment, to start settling scores?" "He was lost in the tide of worldly worries and kept lying, tossing and turning from side to side."

"Oh, my God! It touches life, it gets everywhere," complains Oblomov.

A bell rang in the hall, and "a young man of twenty-five years of age, shining with health, with laughing cheeks, lips and eyes," enters the room. His last name is Volkov. He invites Ilya Ilyich to ride in Yekaterinhof with the ladies, one of whom is in love. The young man chats incessantly, talks about acquaintances, about his countless visits.

"I have all the days are busy!" Volkov concludes with shining eyes. After his departure, Oblomov is immersed in thought. "Ten places in one day - unfortunate!" thought Oblomov.

And that's life! He shrugged hard. - Where is the man? What does it break up and crumble into?" A new call - a new guest entered.

This is Sudbinsky, "a gentleman in a dark green tailcoat with coat of arms buttons, clean-shaven, with dark ... sideburns, with a troubled, but calmly conscious expression in his eyes, with a heavily worn face, with a thoughtful smile." Oblomov congratulates him on his promotion. He once served together with Sudbinsky, asking him about old comrades in the service.

He talks about them and turns to himself - they say, the minister called him "an ornament of the ministry." “Well done!” said Oblomov. “Just work from eight o'clock to twelve, from twelve to five, and even at home - oh, oh!

"Sudbinsky invites Oblomov to the May Day festivities in Yekaterinhof, he refuses, citing ill health. Sudbinsky is going to marry a rich woman, calls Oblomov to be the best man for the wedding. Oblomov tries to talk about his difficulties, but Sudbinsky has no time, he has to go." ears stuck, thought Oblomov, following him with his eyes. - And blind, and deaf, and dumb for everything else in the world ...

And he will live his life, and much, much will not move in it ... "He experienced a feeling of peaceful joy that from nine to three, from eight to nine he could stay on his sofa, and was proud that he did not have to go with report, write papers, that there is room for his feelings, imagination. " Oblomov was torn from his thoughts by a new guest - "a very thin, dark-haired gentleman, overgrown with sideburns, mustaches and goatee", dressed "with deliberate negligence." This is Penkin , a writer who stands up "for a real direction in literature."

He advises Oblomov to read the poem "The Love of a Briber for a Fallen Woman", which is about to be published. Oblomov flatly refuses: “What didn’t I see there? .. In their story, one hears not“ invisible tears ”, but only one visible, rude laughter, anger ... Where is humanity then?

"What are you reading? asks Penkin. "I ... yes, all travel is longer," Oblomov answers evasively.

He once again does not accept, referring to ill health, an invitation to go to Yekateringof. "... Wasting your thought, your soul on trifles, changing your beliefs, trading your mind and imagination, raping your nature, worrying, boiling, burning, not knowing peace and everything is moving somewhere ... When to stop and rest? Unfortunate! " - Oblomov thinks about Penkin when he leaves.

"He turned his head to the table, where everything was smooth, and the ink dried up, and the pen could not be seen, and he was glad that he was lying, carefree, like a newborn baby, that he did not scatter, did not sell anything ..." Another call. Oblomov is surprised why he was suddenly visited by guests. “A man of indefinite years entered, with an indefinite physiognomy ... Many called him Ivan Ivanovich, others Ivan Vasilyich, and still others Ivan Mikhailovich.

His surname was also called differently ... His presence will give nothing to society, just as the absence will take nothing away from him ... He somehow manages to love everyone ...

Although they say about such people that they love everyone and therefore are kind ... in essence, they do not love anyone and are good only because they are not evil. If others give alms to a beggar in front of such a person, Ion will throw his penny to him, and if they scold him, or drive him away, or laugh, he will scold him and laugh with others ...

Ilya Ilyich Oblomov, the protagonist of the novel, lived on Gorokhovaya Street. This man was about 32-33 years old. He was of medium height, of rather pleasant appearance. Ilya Ilyich's eyes were dark grey. There was no concentration in his features, no trace of any idea. Sometimes Oblomov's gaze was clouded by an expression of some kind of boredom or fatigue, which, however, did not drive away from his face the softness inherent not only in his face, but in his whole figure and soul.

Oblomov looked flabby beyond his years and, moreover, his body seemed too pampered for a man. No anxiety prompted him to action, usually it was resolved with a sigh and died away in apathy or drowsiness.

Most of the day, and sometimes the whole day, Oblomov spent lying in his favorite dressing gown, spacious to the point that he could turn around twice.

Ilya Ilyich's apartment consisted of four rooms, but he used only one, in the rest the furniture was covered with covers, and the curtains were drawn down. All rooms, including the one where Ilya Ilyich was constantly staying, were “decorated” with cobweb fringe, a thick layer of dust on objects indicated that cleaning was done very rarely here.

Ilya Ilyich woke up very early, as usual, at eight o'clock. The reason for this was a letter from the headman sent the day before, in which he reported crop failures, arrears, a decrease in income, etc. After the first letter (this was the third) sent several years ago, our hero began to plan various improvements and changes in the management of his estate but so far this plan has remained unfinished. The thought that it was necessary to urgently make some kind of decision oppressed Oblomov, and when it struck half past nine, he began to call Zakhar.

Zakhar entered. Lost in thought, Ilya Ilyich did not notice him for a long time. Finally he coughed. Zakhar asked why he was called, to which Oblomov replied that he did not remember, and sent his servant back.

A quarter of an hour has passed. Ilya Ilyich again called Zakhar and ordered him to find a letter from the headman. And after a while, he scolded him with might and main for dirt and disorder, and all because he could not find the handkerchief that was under him in bed.

As soon as Ilya Ilyich began to rise in bed to get up, Zakhar informed him that the owners were asking to vacate the apartment. Oblomov turned on his back and began to think. But he did not know what to think about, about bills, about moving to a new apartment, or about a letter from the headman. So he tossed and turned from side to side, unable to do anything.

When the bell rang in the hall, Ilya Ilyich was still lying in bed. "Who would it be so early?" he thought. This concludes the summary of Chapter 1 of the novel "Oblomov".

Summary of the chapters of the novel "Oblomov"

Part 1	Part 2	Part 3	Part 4

PART ONE

DREAM OF OBLOMOV

Where are we? To what blessed corner of the earth did Oblomov's dream take us? What a wonderful land!

No, really, there is a sea, there are no high mountains, rocks and abysses, no dense forests - there is nothing grandiose, wild and gloomy.

And why is it, this wild and grandiose? Sea, for example? God bless him! It brings only sadness to a person: looking at him, you want to cry. The heart is embarrassed by timidity in front of the boundless veil of waters, and there is nothing to rest on the look, exhausted by the monotony of the endless picture.

The roar and mad peals of the waves do not caress the weak hearing: they keep repeating their own, from the beginning of the world, one and the same song of gloomy and undeciphered content; and one and the same groan is heard in it, the same complaints, as if a monster doomed to torment, and someone's piercing, ominous voices. Birds don't chirp around; only silent seagulls, like condemned men, rush dejectedly along the coast and circle over the water.

The roar of the beast is powerless before these cries of nature, the voice of man is insignificant, and the man himself is so small, weak, so imperceptibly disappears in the small details of the big picture! That may be why it is so hard for him to look at the sea.

No, God be with him, with the sea! Its very stillness and immobility do not give rise to a gratifying feeling in the soul: in the barely perceptible fluctuation of the mass of water, a person still sees the same immense, albeit sleeping, force, which sometimes so venomously mocks his proud will and so deeply buries his brave plans, all his troubles and labors.

Mountains and abysses are also not created for the amusement of man. They are formidable, terrible, like the claws and teeth of a wild beast released and directed at him; they too vividly remind us of our mortal composition and keep us in fear and longing for life. And the sky there, above the rocks and abysses, seems so far and inaccessible, as if it had receded from people.

Not such a peaceful corner where our hero suddenly found himself.

The sky there, it seems, on the contrary, presses closer to the earth, but not with the aim of throwing stronger arrows, but only to hug her tighter, with love: it spreads so low overhead, like a parent’s reliable roof, to protect, it seems , a chosen corner from all sorts of adversities.

The sun shines brightly and hotly there for about half a year and then leaves from there not suddenly, as if unwillingly, as if turning back to look once or twice at his favorite place and give him in the fall, in the midst of bad weather, a clear, warm day.

The mountains there seem to be only models of those terrible mountains erected somewhere, which terrify the imagination. It is a series of gently sloping hills from which it is pleasant to ride, frolic, on your back, or, sitting on them, to look in thought at the setting sun.

The river runs merrily, frolicking and playing; it either spills into a wide pond, or aspires with a quick thread, or subsides, as if in thought, and crawls a little over the pebbles, releasing frisky streams from itself on the sides, under the murmur of which it sweetly slumbers.

The whole corner of fifteen or twenty versts around presented a series of picturesque sketches, cheerful, smiling landscapes. The sandy and gently sloping banks of a bright river, a small bush creeping up from the hill to the water, a twisted ravine with a stream at the bottom, and a birch grove - everything seemed to be deliberately tidied up one to one and masterfully drawn.

Exhausted by worries or completely unfamiliar with them, the heart asks to hide in this corner forgotten by everyone and live in happiness unknown to anyone. Everything promises there a calm, long-term life up to the yellowness of the hair and an imperceptible, sleep-like death.

Correctly and imperturbably, the yearly cycle takes place there.

According to the calendar, spring will come in March, dirty streams will run from the hills, the earth will thaw and smoke with warm steam; the peasant throws off his short fur coat, goes out into the air in one shirt and, covering his eyes with his hand, admires the sun for a long time, shrugging his shoulders with pleasure; then he will pull the cart turned upside down, now by one shaft, then by the other, or he will examine and kick the plow lying idly under a canopy, preparing for ordinary labors.

Sudden blizzards do not return in the spring, do not fall asleep fields and do not break trees with snow.

Winter, like an impregnable, cold beauty, maintains its character right up to the legitimized time of warmth; does not tease with unexpected thaws and does not oppress in three arcs with unheard-of frosts; everything proceeds according to the general order prescribed by nature.

In November, snow and frost begin, which by Epiphany intensifies to the point that the peasant, leaving the hut for a minute, will certainly return with frost on his beard; and in February, a sensitive nose already feels in the air a soft breath of approaching spring.

But summer, summer is especially intoxicating in that region. There you need to look for fresh, dry air, filled with - not lemon and not laurel, but simply the smell of wormwood, pine and bird cherry; there to look for clear days, slightly burning, but not scorching rays of the sun and for almost three months a cloudless sky.

As clear days go, then three or four weeks last; and the evening was warm there, and the night was stuffy. The stars are so welcoming, so friendly blinking from heaven.

Will it rain - what a beneficial summer rain! It will gush briskly, plentifully, jump merrily, like large and hot tears of a suddenly overjoyed person; and as soon as it stops, the sun again, with a clear smile of love, examines and dries the fields and hillocks; and the whole side again smiles with happiness in response to the sun.

The peasant joyfully welcomes the rain: “The rain will soak, the sun will dry!” - he says, substituting his face, shoulders and back with pleasure under the warm downpour.

Thunderstorms are not terrible, but only beneficial there: they happen constantly at the same set time, almost never forgetting Ilya's day, as if in order to support a well-known tradition among the people. And the number and strength of the blows, it seems, are the same every year, just as if a certain measure of electricity was released from the treasury for a year to the whole region.

Neither terrible storms nor destruction can be heard in that land.

No one ever read anything like it in the papers about this God-blessed corner. And nothing would ever have been printed, and nothing would have been heard about this region, if only the peasant widow Marina Kulkova, twenty-eight years old, had not given birth to four babies at once, which could no longer be silent.

The Lord did not punish that side either with Egyptian or simple plagues. None of the inhabitants has seen and does not remember any terrible heavenly signs, no balls of fire, no sudden darkness; there are no poisonous reptiles; locusts do not fly there; there are no roaring lions, no roaring tigers, not even bears and wolves, because there are no forests. Only munching cows, bleating sheep and clucking chickens roam the fields and the village.

God knows if a poet or a dreamer would be content with the nature of a peaceful corner. These gentlemen, as you know, love to stare at the moon and listen to the clicking of nightingales. They love the moon-coquette, which would dress up in pale-yellow clouds and mysteriously see through the branches of trees or pour sheaves of silver rays into the eyes of its fans.

And in this region, no one knew what kind of moon this was - everyone called it a month. She somehow good-naturedly, with all her eyes, looked at the villages and the field and was very much like a cleaned copper basin.

It would be in vain for a poet to look with enthusiastic eyes at her: she would look at the poet just as ingenuously, as a round-faced village beauty looks in response to the passionate and eloquent glances of urban red tape.

Solovyov is also not heard in that region, perhaps because there were no shady shelters and roses there; but what an abundance of quails! In the summer, when harvesting bread, the boys catch them with their hands.

Yes, they won’t think, however, that quail would be an object of gastronomic luxury there - no, such corruption has not penetrated into the mores of the inhabitants of that region: quail is a bird that is not shown as food by charter. There she delights the human ear with singing: that is why in almost every house a quail hangs in a thread cage under the roof.

A poet and a dreamer would not be satisfied even with the general appearance of this modest and unpretentious area. They would not have been able to see there some evening in the Swiss or Scottish taste, when all nature - and the forest, and the water, and the walls of the huts, and the sandy hills - everything burns like a crimson glow; when this crimson background is sharply set off by a cavalcade of men riding along a sandy winding road, accompanying some lady on walks to a gloomy ruin or hastening to a strong castle, where an episode about the war of two roses awaits them, told by their grandfather, a wild goat for dinner and sung by a young Miss, to the sounds of the lute, a ballad - pictures with which the pen of Walter Scott so richly populated our imagination.

No, this was not the case in our region.

How quiet everything is, everything is sleepy in the three or four villages that make up this corner! They lay not far from each other and were as if accidentally thrown by a giant hand and scattered in different directions, and have remained so since then.

As one hut fell on the cliff of a ravine, it has been hanging there since time immemorial, standing with one half in the air and propped up by three poles. Three or four generations quietly and happily lived in it.

It seems that a chicken would be afraid to enter it, and there lives with his wife Onisim Suslov, a respectable man who does not stare at full height in his dwelling.

Not everyone will be able to enter the hut to Onesimus; unless the visitor asks her stand back to the forest, and front to it.

The porch hung over the ravine, and in order to get on the porch with your foot, you had to grab the grass with one hand, the roof of the hut with the other, and then step straight onto the porch.

Another hut clung to a hillock like a swallow's nest; there three found themselves by chance nearby, and two stand at the very bottom of the ravine.

Everything is quiet and sleepy in the village: the silent huts are wide open; not a soul is visible; only flies fly in clouds and buzz in stuffiness.

Entering the hut, in vain you begin to call loudly: dead silence will be the answer: in a rare hut, an old woman living out her life on the stove will respond with a painful groan or a dull cough, or a barefoot, long-haired three-year-old child in one shirt will appear from behind the partition, silently, intently look at who entered and timidly hides himself again.

The same deep silence and peace lie in the fields; only in some places, like an ant, a plowman, scorched by the heat, hovering on a black field, leaning on a plow and sweating.

Silence and imperturbable calm reign in the morals of people in that region. There were no robberies, no murders, no terrible accidents; neither strong passions nor daring undertakings excited them.

And what passions and enterprises might excite them? Everyone knew himself there. The inhabitants of this region lived far away from other people. The nearest villages and the county town were twenty-five and thirty versts away.

Peasants at a certain time carried grain to the nearest pier to the Volga, which was their Colchis and the pillars of Hercules, and once a year some went to the fair, and had no further contact with anyone.

Their interests were focused on themselves, did not intersect and did not come into contact with anyone else.

They knew that eighty versts from them there was a "province", that is, a provincial town, but few went there; then they knew that further away, there, Saratov or Nizhny; they heard that there is Moscow and St. Petersburg, that the French or Germans live beyond St. Petersburg, and then the dark world began for them, as for the ancients, unknown countries inhabited by monsters, people with two heads, giants; darkness followed there - and, finally, everything ended with that fish that holds the earth on itself.

And as their corner was almost impassable, there was nowhere to get the latest news about what was happening in the world: the guards with wooden utensils lived only twenty miles away and knew no more than them. There was nothing even to compare them with their life-being; whether they live well, whether not; whether they are rich or poor; was there anything else you could wish for that others have.

Happy people lived, thinking that it should not and cannot be otherwise, confident that all others live in exactly the same way and that it is a sin to live otherwise.

They would not have believed it if they had been told that others plowed, sowed, reaped, sold in some other way. What passions and excitements could they have?

They, like all people, had both worries and weaknesses, a contribution of tribute or dues, laziness and sleep; but all this cost them cheaply, without blood disturbances.

In the last five years, out of several hundred souls, no one has died, let alone a violent, even a natural death.

And if someone from old age or from some chronic illness and rested in eternal sleep, then for a long time after that they could not be surprised at such an unusual event.

Meanwhile, it did not seem at all surprising to them how, for example, the blacksmith Taras himself almost got himself steamed to death in a dugout, to the point that he had to be cast with water.

Of the crimes, one thing, namely the theft of peas, carrots and turnips in the gardens, was in great use, but one day two piglets and a chicken suddenly disappeared - an incident that outraged the entire neighborhood and was unanimously attributed to a wagon train passing the day before with wooden utensils to the fair. And then in general, accidents of any kind were very rare.

Once, however, a man was found lying behind the outskirts, in a ditch, by the bridge, apparently lagging behind the artel passing into the city.

The boys were the first to notice him and ran in horror to the village with the news of some terrible snake or werewolf that was lying in the ditch, adding that he had chased them and almost ate Kuzka.

Where is it taking you? - soothed the old people. - Is Al's neck strong? What do you need? Don't worry: you are not being chased.

But the peasants went on, and fifty sazhens before the place began to call out to the monster in different voices: there was no answer; they stopped; then they moved again.

In the ditch lay a peasant, his head resting on a hillock; a sack and a stick were lying around him, on which two pairs of bast shoes were hung.

The men did not dare to come close or touch.

Hey! You brother! they shouted in turn, scratching the back of their heads, some of them. - How are you? Hey, you! What do you want here?

The passer-by made a movement to raise his head, but could not: he was apparently unwell or very tired.

One decided to touch him with a pitchfork.

Don't shut up! Don't shut up! many shouted. - How do you know what he is: oh, nothing beats: maybe some kind of ... Don't bother him, guys!

Let's go, - some said, - really, let's go: what is he to us, uncle, or what? Only trouble with him!

And everyone went back to the village, telling the old people that there was a stranger lying there, that he didn’t hurt anything, and God knows that he was there ...

Outsider, don't stop it! - said the old men, sitting on the mound and putting their elbows on their knees. - Let it to yourself! And there was nothing for you to walk on!

Such was the corner where Oblomov was suddenly transported in a dream.

Of the three or four villages scattered there, there was one Sosnovka, the other Vavilovka, one verst from each other.

Sosnovka and Vavilovka were the hereditary fathers of the Oblomov family and therefore were known under the common name of Oblomovka.

In Sosnovka there was a manor and a residence. About five versts from Sosnovka lay the village of Verkhlevo, which also once belonged to the Oblomov family and had long since passed into other hands, and a few more huts scattered here and there, numbered in the same village.

The village belonged to a wealthy landowner who never showed up to his estate: it was managed by a German manager.

That's the whole geography of this corner.

Ilya Ilyich woke up in the morning in his little bed. He is only seven years old. It's easy and fun for him.

What a pretty, red, full he is! The cheeks are so round that some naughty puffs up on purpose, but he won't do them.

Nanny is waiting for him to wake up. She begins to put on his stockings; he is not given, he is naughty, dangles his legs; the nurse catches him, and they both laugh.

At last she succeeded in lifting him to his feet; she washes him, combs his hair, and leads him to his mother.

Oblomov, seeing his long-dead mother, trembled in a dream with joy, with ardent love for her: from him, in a sleepy one, two warm tears slowly floated out from under his eyelashes and became motionless.

His mother showered him with passionate kisses, then looked at him with greedy, caring eyes, whether his eyes were cloudy, asked if something hurt, asked the nurse, did he sleep peacefully, did he not wake up at night, did he toss and turn in his sleep, was there any does he have a fever? Then she took him by the hand and led him to the icon.

There, kneeling down and embracing him with one arm, she suggested to him the words of the prayer.

The boy repeated them absently, looking out the window, from which coolness and the smell of lilacs poured into the room.

Are we, mother, going for a walk today? he suddenly asked in the midst of prayer.

Let's go, darling, - she said hastily, not taking her eyes off the icon and hurrying to finish the holy words.

The boy repeated them listlessly, but his mother poured her whole soul into them.

Then they went to their father, then to tea.

Near the tea table, Oblomov saw an elderly aunt living with them, eighty years old, incessantly grumbling at her girl, who, shaking her head from old age, served her, standing behind her chair. There are three elderly girls, distant relatives of his father, and a little crazy brother-in-law of his mother, and the landowner of seven souls, Chekmenev, who was visiting them, and some other old women and old men.

All this staff and the retinue of the Oblomov family picked up Ilya Ilyich in their arms and began to shower him with caresses and praises; he barely had time to wipe off the traces of uninvited kisses.

After that, feeding him with buns, crackers, and cream began.

Then the mother, after caressing him some more, let him go for a walk in the garden, around the yard, on the meadow, with strict confirmation to the nanny not to leave the child alone, not to allow him to horses, to dogs, to a goat, not to go far from home, and most importantly, not to let him in. into the ravine, as the most terrible place in the neighborhood, which enjoyed a bad reputation.

There they once found a dog, recognized as rabid because it rushed away from people when they gathered at it with pitchforks and axes, and disappeared somewhere behind the mountain; carrion was brought into the ravine; robbers, and wolves, and various other creatures were supposed to be in the ravine, which either did not exist in that region, or did not exist at all.

The child did not wait for the mother's warnings: he had been in the yard for a long time.

With joyful amazement, as if for the first time, he looked around and ran around the parental house with the gate bent to one side, with a wooden roof that had sunk down in the middle, on which tender green moss grew, with a staggering porch, various outbuildings and settings, and with a neglected garden.

He passionately wants to run up to the hanging gallery that goes around the whole house, in order to look from there at the river; but the gallery is dilapidated, barely holding on, and only “people” are allowed to walk along it, but the gentlemen do not.

He did not heed his mother's prohibitions and was already heading for the seductive steps, but the nanny appeared on the porch and somehow caught him.

He rushed from her to the hayloft, with the intention of climbing up the steep stairs there, and as soon as she had time to reach the hayloft, she had to rush to destroy his plans to climb into the dovecote, penetrate into the barnyard and, God forbid! - into the ravine.

Oh, Lord, what a child, what a spinning top! Will you sit still, sir? Ashamed! the nanny said.

And the whole day, and all the days and nights of the nanny were filled with turmoil, running around: either torture, then living joy for the child, then the fear that he would fall and hurt his nose, then tenderness from his unfeigned childish caress or vague longing for his distant future: it was only with this that her heart beat, with these excitements the blood of the old woman was warmed up, and somehow they supported her sleepy life, which without that, perhaps, would have died out a long time ago.

Not everything is frisky, however, the child: sometimes he suddenly calms down, sitting near the nurse, and looks at everything so intently. His childish mind observes all the phenomena taking place before him; they sink deep into his soul, then grow and mature with him.

The morning is magnificent; the air is cool; the sun is still low. From the house, from the trees, and from the dovecote, and from the gallery - long shadows ran far away from everything. Cool corners formed in the garden and in the yard, beckoning to thoughtfulness and sleep. Only in the distance the field with rye is as if on fire, and the river glistens and sparkles in the sun so much that it hurts the eyes.

Why is it, nanny, it’s dark here, and there it’s light, but will it be light there too? the child asked.

Because, father, that the sun goes towards the moon and does not see it, it frowns; and as soon as he sees from afar, he will brighten up.

The child thinks and looks around: he sees how Antip went for water, and on the ground, next to him, another Antip walked, ten times larger than the real one, and the barrel seemed the size of a house, and the shadow of the horse covered the whole meadow, the shadow only stepped twice across the meadow and suddenly moved over the mountain, and Antip still did not have time to move out of the yard.

The child also took a step or two, another step - and he will go over the mountain.

He would like to go to the mountain, to see where the horse has gone. He is towards the gate, but from the window he heard his mother's voice:

Nanny! Do not you see that the child ran out into the sun! Take him into the cold; bake his head - it will hurt, it will become nauseous, he will not eat. He will go into your ravine like that!

Wu! minion! - the nanny grumbles softly, dragging him onto the porch.

The child looks and observes with a sharp and captivating look how and what adults do, what they devote the morning to.

Not a single trifle, not a single feature escapes the inquisitive attention of a child; the picture of domestic life indelibly cuts into the soul; the soft mind is imbued with living examples and unconsciously draws a program of his life from the life around him.

It cannot be said that the morning was wasted in the Oblomovs' house. The sound of knives chopping cutlets and greens in the kitchen even reached the village.

The hissing of the spindle and the soft, thin voice of the woman could be heard from the human room: it was difficult to recognize whether she was crying or improvising a mournful song without words.

In the yard, as soon as Antip returned with a barrel, from different corners crawled towards it with buckets, troughs and jugs of a woman, a coachman.

And there the old woman will carry from the barn to the kitchen a cup of flour and a bunch of eggs; there the cook will suddenly throw water out of the window and pour it over Arapka, who has been staring out the window for the whole morning, wagging her tail affectionately and licking her lips.

Oblomov himself, the old man, is also not without work. He sits at the window all morning and strictly observes everything that is happening in the yard.

Hey Ignashka? What are you talking about, you fool? - he will ask a man walking through the yard.

I'm bringing knives to sharpen in the human room, - he answers, without looking at the master.

Well, bring it, bring it, but it’s good, look, sharpen it!

Then he stops the woman:

Hey grandma! Woman! Where did you go?

To the cellar, father, - she said, stopping, and, covering her eyes with her hand, looked at the window, - to get milk to the table.

Well go, go! - answered the barin. - Look, don't spill the milk. - And you, Zakharka, shooter, where are you running again? - shouted then. - I'll let you run! I see that you are running for the third time. Went back to the hallway!

And Zakharka went back to doze in the hallway.

If the cows come from the field, the old man will be the first to see that they are watered; If he sees from the window that the cur is chasing a chicken, he will immediately take strict measures against disorder.

And his wife is very busy: she talks for three hours with Averka, the tailor, how to alter Ilyusha's jacket from her husband's jersey, draws with chalk herself and watches that Averka does not steal the cloth; then he will go into the girl's room, ask each girl how much lace to weave on the day; then he will invite Nastasya Ivanovna, or Stepanida Agapovna, or another of his retinue, to take a walk in the garden with a practical purpose: to see how the apple is pouring, whether yesterday's one, which has already ripened, has fallen; graft there, cut there, etc.

But the main concern was the kitchen and dinner. The whole house conferred about dinner; and the elderly aunt was invited to the council. Everyone offered his dish: some soup with offal, some noodles or stomach, some tripes, some red, some white gravy to the sauce.

Any advice was taken into consideration, discussed in detail, and then accepted or rejected by the final verdict of the hostess.

Nastasya Petrovna and Stepanida Ivanovna were constantly sent to the kitchen to remind them whether to add this or cancel that, bring sugar, honey, wine for food and see if the cook put everything that was released.

Caring for food was the first and main concern of life in Oblomovka. What calves fattened there for the annual holidays! What a bird was brought up! How many subtle considerations, how much knowledge and worries in courting her! Turkeys and chickens assigned to name days and other solemn days were fattened with nuts; geese were deprived of exercise, forced to hang motionless in a bag a few days before the holiday, so that they swam with fat. What stocks were there of jams, pickles, biscuits! What honeys, what kvass were brewed, what pies were baked in Oblomovka!

And so, until noon, everything was bustling and caring, everything lived such a full, ant-like, such a noticeable life.

On Sundays and holidays, these industrious ants did not let up either: then the knock of knives in the kitchen was heard more often and stronger; the woman made several trips from the barn to the kitchen with double the amount of flour and eggs; there was more groaning and bloodshed in the poultry yard. They baked a gigantic cake, which the gentlemen themselves ate the next day; on the third and fourth days, the remains entered the girl's room; the pie survived until Friday, so that one completely stale end, without any filling, went, in the form of a special favor, to Antipas, who, crossing himself, undauntedly destroyed this curious fossil with a crash, enjoying more the consciousness that this was the master's pie than the pie itself, like an archaeologist who enjoys drinking rubbish wine from a shard of some thousand-year-old crockery.

And the child watched everything and observed everything with his childish mind, which did not miss anything. He saw how, after a useful and troublesome morning, noon and dinner would come.

Hot afternoon; the sky is clear. The sun stands motionless overhead and burns the grass. The air has ceased to flow and hangs without movement. Neither wood nor water moves; an imperturbable silence lies over the village and the field - everything seems to have died out. A human voice resounds loudly and far in the void. Twenty sazhens away you can hear a beetle flying by and buzzing, and in the thick grass someone is still snoring, as if someone has collapsed there and is sleeping a sweet dream.

And the house was dead silent. It was time for the afternoon nap.

The child sees that the father, and the mother, and the old aunt, and the retinue - all scattered in their corners; and who did not have it, he went to the hayloft, another to the garden, the third sought coolness in the hallway, and another, covering his face with a handkerchief from flies, fell asleep where the heat killed him and threw down the bulky dinner. And the gardener stretched out under a bush in the garden, beside his pick, and the coachman slept in the stable.

Ilya Ilyich looked into the people's room: in the people's room everyone lay side by side, on the benches, on the floor and in the entryway, leaving the children to themselves; children crawl around the yard and dig in the sand. And the dogs climbed far into the kennels, since there was no one to bark at.

One could walk right through the whole house and not meet a soul; it was easy to rob everything around and take them out of the yard in carts: no one would interfere if only there were thieves in that region.

It was some kind of all-consuming, invincible dream, a true likeness of death. Everything is dead, only a variety of snoring in all tones and modes is rushing from all corners.

From time to time someone will suddenly raise his head from sleep, look senselessly, with surprise, at both sides and roll over to the other side, or, without opening his eyes, spit awake and, smacking his lips or grumbling something under his breath, will fall asleep again.

And the other quickly, without any preliminary preparations, jumps up with both feet from his bed, as if afraid of losing precious minutes, grabs a mug of kvass and, blowing on the flies floating there, so that they are carried to the other side, why the flies, until then immobile, begin to move violently, in the hope of improving their situation, wet their throats and then fall back on the bed like a shot.

And the child watched and watched everything.

He and his nanny went out into the air again after dinner. But even the nanny, in spite of all the severity of the lady's orders and of her own will, could not resist the charm of sleep. She, too, became infected with this epidemic disease that prevailed in Oblomovka.

At first she cheerfully looked after the child, did not let her go far from her, grumbled severely for her playfulness, then, feeling the symptoms of an approaching infection, she began to beg not to go out of the gate, not to touch the goat, not to climb the dovecote or gallery.

She herself sat down somewhere in the cold: on the porch, on the threshold of the cellar, or simply on the grass, apparently in order to knit a stocking and look after the child. But soon she lazily appeased him, nodding her head.

“It will fit, oh, just look, this top will fit into the gallery,” she thought almost through a dream, “or something else ... as if into a ravine ...”

Here the old woman's head bowed to her knees, the stocking fell out of her hands; she lost sight of the child and, opening her mouth a little, let out a slight snore.

And he was looking forward to this moment, with which his independent life began.

He seemed to be alone in the whole world; he tiptoed away from the nurse, examined everyone who was sleeping where; stops and looks intently as someone wakes up, spits or mumbles something in a dream; then, with a beating heart, he ran up to the gallery, ran around on the creaking boards, climbed the dovecote, climbed into the wilderness of the garden, listened to the buzzing of the beetle, and watched its flight in the air far away; he listened to someone chirping in the grass, looking for and catching the violators of this silence; he will catch a dragonfly, tear off its wings and see what will come of it, or pierce a straw through it and watch how it flies with this addition; with pleasure, afraid to die, he watches the spider, how he sucks the blood of a caught fly, how the poor victim beats and buzzes in his paws. The child will end up killing both the victim and the tormentor.

Then he climbs into the ditch, digs, looks for some roots, peels off the bark and eats to his heart's content, preferring the apples and jam that mother gives.

He will also run out of the gate: he would like to go into the birch forest; he seems so close to him that in five minutes he would have reached him, not around, along the road, but straight ahead, through a ditch, wattle fences and pits; but he is afraid: there, they say, there are goblin, and robbers, and terrible beasts.

He also wants to run into the ravine: he is only fifty sazhens from the garden; the child already ran to the edge, screwed up his eyes, wanted to look into the crater of a volcano ... but suddenly all the rumors and legends about this ravine arose before him: he was seized with horror, and he, neither dead nor alive, rushes back and, trembling from fear, rushed to the nurse and woke the old woman.

She woke up from sleep, straightened the scarf on her head, picked up tufts of gray hair under it with her finger and, pretending that she had not slept at all, looked suspiciously at Ilyusha, then at the master's windows and began to poke with trembling fingers one into the other knitting needles of the stocking that lay with her. on the knees.

Meanwhile, the heat began to subside a little; in nature everything became more alive; The sun has already moved towards the forest.

And the silence in the house was broken little by little: in one corner a door creaked somewhere; someone's steps were heard in the yard; in the hayloft someone sneezed.

Soon a man hurriedly carried from the kitchen, bending over from the weight, a huge samovar. They began to gather for tea: whose face was wrinkled and his eyes swollen with tears; the latter laid a red spot on his cheek and temples; the third speaks from a dream in a voice that is not his own. All this sniffs, groans, yawns, scratches his head and warms up, barely coming to his senses.

Dinner and sleep gave birth to an unquenchable thirst. Thirst burns the throat; he drinks twelve cups of tea, but this does not help: groaning, groaning is heard; they resort to lingonberry, pear water, kvass, and others to a medical allowance, just to fill the drought in their throats.

Everyone was looking for deliverance from thirst, as from some kind of punishment from the Lord; everyone is rushing about, everyone is languishing, like a caravan of travelers in the Arabian steppe, not finding a source of water anywhere.

The child is here, next to his mother: he peers into the strange faces around him, listens to their sleepy and sluggish conversation. It is fun for him to look at them, every nonsense they say seems curious to him.

After tea, everyone will do something: someone will go to the river and quietly wander along the shore, pushing pebbles into the water with their foot; the other will sit by the window and catch with his eyes every fleeting phenomenon: whether a cat runs across the yard, whether a jackdaw flies by, the observer pursues both with his eyes and the tip of his nose, turning his head to the right, then to the left. So sometimes dogs like to sit for whole days on the window, putting their heads under the sun and carefully looking at every passerby.

Mother will take Ilyusha's head, put it on her knees and slowly comb his hair, admiring its softness and making both Nastasya Ivanovna and Stepanida Tikhonovna admire it, and talk to them about Ilyusha's future, make him the hero of some brilliant epic created by her. They promise him mountains of gold.

But now it's starting to get dark. In the kitchen, the fire crackles again, the fractional clatter of knives is heard again: dinner is being prepared.

The servants gathered at the gate: there is heard a balalaika, laughter. People are playing with burners.

And the sun was already sinking behind the forest; it cast several slightly warm rays, which cut through the entire forest in a fiery stripe, brightly pouring gold over the tops of the pines. Then the rays went out one by one; the last ray remained long; he, like a thin needle, pierced into a thicket of branches; but that one also faded.

Objects lost their shape; everything merged first into gray, then into a dark mass. The singing of the birds gradually weakened; soon they were completely silent, except for one stubborn one, who, as if in defiance of everyone, in the midst of the general silence, alone chirped monotonously at intervals, but less and less often, and she finally whistled weakly, silently, for the last time, started up, slightly stirring the leaves around me... and fell asleep.

Everything was silent. Some grasshoppers crackled louder in their launches. White vapors rose from the earth and spread over the meadow and along the river. The river also subsided; a little later, and suddenly someone splashed in her for the last time, and she became motionless.

It smelled of dampness. It got darker and darker. The trees were grouped into some kind of monsters; in the forest it became frightening: there someone would suddenly creak, as if one of the monsters were moving from its place to another, and a dry twig seemed to crunch under his foot.

The first star shone brightly in the sky, like a living eye, and lights flickered in the windows of the house.

The moments of universal, solemn silence of nature have come, those moments when the creative mind works harder, poetic thoughts boil hotter, when passion flares up in the heart more vividly or longing aches more painfully, when the grain of criminal thought ripens more calmly and stronger in a cruel soul, and when ... in Oblomovka everyone rests so soundly and calmly.

Let's go, mom, for a walk, - says Ilyusha.

What are you, God is with you! Now walk, - she answers, - it's damp, you'll catch a cold; and it’s scary: now the goblin walks in the forest, he takes away small children.

Where does he take it? What is he like? Where does he live? the child asks.

And the mother gave free rein to her unbridled fantasy.

The child listened to her, opening and closing his eyes, until finally sleep overcame him altogether. The nanny would come and, taking him from his mother's lap, would carry the sleepy one, with his head hanging over her shoulder, to bed.

The day has passed, and thank God! - said the Oblomovites, lying down in bed, groaning and making the sign of the cross. - lived happily; God bless tomorrow too! Glory to you, Lord! Glory to you, Lord!

Then Oblomov dreamed of another time: on an endless winter evening, he timidly huddles up to his nanny, and she whispers to him about some unknown side, where there are no nights, no cold, where miracles all happen, where rivers of honey and milk flow, where no one is anything He doesn’t do it all year round, but day and night they only know that all the good fellows, such as Ilya Ilyich, are walking around, and beauties, which can’t be said in a fairy tale or described with a pen.

There is also a kind sorceress, who sometimes appears to us in the form of a pike, who will choose for herself some kind of favorite, quiet, harmless, in other words, some kind of lazy person, whom everyone offends, and showers him, for no reason, different goods, but you know he eats himself and dresses up in a ready-made dress, and then marries some unheard-of beauty Militrissa Kirbityevna.

The child, ears and eyes pricked up, passionately dug into the story.

Nurse or legend so skillfully avoided everything that really exists in the story that imagination and mind, imbued with fiction, remained in his slavery until old age. The nanny kindly narrated the tale of Emel the Fool, this evil and insidious satire on our great-grandfathers, and perhaps also on ourselves.

Although the adult Ilya Ilyich later learns that there are no rivers of honey and milk, there are no good sorceresses, although he jokes with a smile over the tales of his nanny, but this smile is not sincere, it is accompanied by a secret sigh: his fairy tale is mixed with life, and he unconsciously sometimes sad, why a fairy tale is not life, and life is not a fairy tale.

He involuntarily dreams of Militrisa Kirbityevna; everything pulls him in that direction, where they only know that they are walking, where there are no worries and sorrows; he always has the disposition to lie on the stove, walk around in a ready-made, unearned dress and eat at the expense of a good sorceress.

Both old man Oblomov and grandfather listened in childhood to the same tales that passed in the stereotypical edition of antiquity, in the mouths of nannies and uncles, through centuries and generations.

The nanny, meanwhile, paints a different picture for the child's imagination.

She tells him about the exploits of our Achilles and Ulysses, about the prowess Ilya Muromets, Dobrynya Nikitich, Alyosha Popovich, about Polkan the Bogatyr, about Kolechishche the passerby, about how they wandered around Russia, beat countless hordes of infidels, how they competed in who would drink green wine in one breath and not grunt; then she spoke of evil robbers, sleeping princesses, petrified cities and people; finally, she moved on to our demonology, to the dead, to monsters and werewolves.

With the simplicity and good-naturedness of Homer, with the same burning fidelity of detail and relief of pictures, she put into the children's memory and imagination the iliad of Russian life, created by our homerids of those foggy times, when man still did not get along with the dangers and mysteries of nature and life, when he trembled and before the werewolf, and before the goblin, and at Alyosha Popovich, he sought protection from the troubles surrounding him, when miracles reigned in the air, and in the water, and in the forest, and in the field.

Terrible and unfaithful was the life of the then man; it was dangerous for him to go beyond the threshold of the house: look, he would be beaten up by a beast, a robber would slaughter him, an evil Tatar would take away everything from him, or a man would disappear without a trace, without any trace.

And then suddenly signs of heaven will appear, pillars of fire and balls; and there, over a fresh grave, a light will flash, or someone is walking in the forest, as if with a lantern, but laughing terribly and sparkling in the dark.

And so many incomprehensible things happened to the person himself: a person lives and lives long and well - nothing, but suddenly he speaks such an uncouth one, or learns to scream in a voice that is not his own, or wanders around sleepy at night; the other, for no apparent reason, will begin to jar and beat to the ground. And before doing this, a hen had just crowed like a rooster and a raven had croaked over the roof.

A weak man lost himself, looking around in horror in life, and searched in his imagination for the key to the mysteries of his surroundings and his own nature.

And, perhaps, sleep, the eternal silence of a sluggish life and the absence of movement and any real fears, adventures and dangers forced a person to create in the natural world another, unrealizable one, and in it to look for revelry and fun for idle imagination or a clue to the ordinary chains of circumstances and causes of a phenomenon outside of itself. phenomena.

Our poor ancestors lived by touch; they did not inspire and did not restrain their will, and then they naively marveled or were horrified at the inconvenience, evil and interrogated the reasons from the mute, obscure hieroglyphs of nature.

Death happened to them from a dead man taken out of the house before with his head, and not with his feet from the gate; fire - from the fact that the dog howled three nights under the window; and they fussed to carry the dead man out of the gate with their feet, but they ate the same thing, in the same amount, and slept as before on the bare grass; the howling dog was beaten or driven out of the yard, and the sparks from the torch were nevertheless thrown into the crack of the rotten floor.

And to this day, Russian people, among the strict reality that surrounds him, devoid of fiction, loves to believe the seductive tales of antiquity, and for a long time, perhaps, he will not renounce this faith.

Listening from the nanny tales about our Golden Fleece - Firebird, about the barriers and secrets of the magic castle, the boy either cheered up, imagining himself a hero of a feat - and goosebumps ran down his back, then he suffered for the failures of the brave man.

Story after story flowed. Nanny narrated with ardor, picturesquely, with enthusiasm, in places with inspiration, because she herself half believed the stories. The eyes of the old woman sparkled with fire; his head was trembling with excitement; his voice rose to an unfamiliar note.

The child, embraced by unknown horror, clung to her with tears in his eyes.

Whether it was about the dead rising from the graves at midnight, or about the victims languishing in captivity with a monster, or about a bear with a wooden leg that goes through the villages and villages to look for a natural leg cut off from him, the child’s hair crackled on his head in horror ; children's imagination now froze, then boiled; he experienced a painful, sweetly painful process; nerves tensed like strings.

When the nanny gloomily repeated the words of the bear: “Squeak, creak, fake foot; I walked through the villages, walked through the village, all the women are sleeping, one woman does not sleep, she sits on my skin, cooks my meat, spins my wool, etc.; when the bear finally entered the hut and was preparing to grab the kidnapper of his leg, the child could not stand it: with trembling and squealing, he threw himself into the arms of the nanny; tears of fright spurt from him, and together he laughs with joy that he is not in the claws of the beast, but on the couch, next to the nurse.

The boy's imagination was inhabited by strange ghosts; fear and longing settled down for a long time, perhaps forever, in the soul. He sadly looks around and sees everything in life, harm, misfortune, everything dreams of that magical side, where there is no evil, trouble, sorrow, where Militrisa Kirbityevna lives, where they feed so well and dress for nothing ...

The fairy tale retains its power not only over children in Oblomovka, but also over adults until the end of their lives. Everyone in the house and in the village, from the master, his wife, to the hefty blacksmith Taras, everyone trembles for something on a dark evening: then every tree turns into a giant, every bush into a den of robbers.

The rattle of the shutters and the howling of the wind in the chimney made men, women and children turn pale. No one in Epiphany will go out after ten o'clock in the evening alone through the gate; everyone on Easter night is afraid to go to the stable, fearing to find a brownie there.

In Oblomovka they believed everything: both werewolves and the dead. If they tell them that a haystack was walking around the field, they will not hesitate and believe; If anyone misses a rumor that this is not a ram, but something else, or that such and such a Martha or Stepanida is a witch, they will be afraid of both the ram and Martha: it would not even occur to them to ask why the ram became not a ram, and Martha became a witch, and even attack the one who would dare to doubt this - so strong is faith in the miraculous in Oblomovka!

Ilya Ilyich will see later that the world is simply arranged, that the dead do not rise from the graves, that the giants, as soon as they start up, are immediately put into a booth, and robbers into prison; but if the very belief in ghosts disappears, then some residue of fear and unaccountable anguish remains.

Ilya Ilyich found out that there are no troubles from monsters, and which ones he hardly knows, and at every step everything is waiting for something terrible and afraid. And now, when he remains in a dark room or sees a dead person, he trembles from the sinister melancholy planted in his soul in childhood; laughing at his fears in the morning, he turns pale again in the evening.

He is already studying in the village of Verkhlev, five versts from Oblomovka, with the local manager, the German Stolz, who has started a small boarding school for the children of the surrounding nobles.

He had his own son, Andrey, almost the same age as Oblomov, and they gave him one boy who almost never studied, but suffered more from scrofula, spent all his childhood constantly blindfolded or with his ears and cried all in secret about the fact that he lives not with his grandmother, but in a strange house, among the villains, that there is no one to caress him and no one will bake his favorite pie.

In addition to these children, there were no others in the boarding house yet.

There is nothing to do, father and mother put the spoiled Ilyusha behind the book. It was worth the tears, the screams, the whims. Finally taken away.

The German was a practical and strict man, like almost all Germans. Perhaps Ilyusha would have had time to learn something well from him if Oblomovka had been five hundred versts from Verkhlev. And then how to learn? The charm of the Oblomov atmosphere, way of life and habits extended to Verkhlyovo; after all, it, too, was once Oblomovka; there, except for Stolz's house, everything breathed the same primitive laziness, simplicity of manners, silence and immobility.

The mind and heart of the child were filled with all the pictures, scenes and customs of this life before he saw the first book. And who knows how early the development of the mental seed in the children's brain begins? How to follow the birth of the first concepts and impressions in the infant soul?

Maybe when the child was still barely pronouncing words, or maybe not yet pronouncing at all, not even walking, but only looking at everything with that fixed, mute childish look that adults call stupid, he already saw and guessed the meaning and connection of the phenomena around him. spheres, but only did not admit it either to themselves or to others.

Maybe Ilyusha has been noticing and understanding for a long time what they say and do in his presence: like his father, in plush trousers, in a brown woolen wool jacket, all day and day he knows that he walks from corner to corner, with his hands folded back, sniffing snuff and blowing his nose, and mother goes from coffee to tea, from tea to dinner; that a parent will never even think of believing how many kopecks are beveled or squeezed, and to exact for an omission, but give him a handkerchief not soon, he will shout about riots and turn the whole house upside down.

Perhaps his childish mind had long ago decided that this is how, and not otherwise, one should live, as adults live around him. And how else would you order him to decide? How did adults live in Oblomovka?

Did they ask themselves the question: why is life given? God knows. And how did they respond to it? Probably not; it seemed to them very simple and clear.

They have not heard of the so-called hard-working life, of people who carry languishing cares in their chests, scurrying for some reason from corner to corner across the face of the earth, or giving their lives to eternal, endless labor.

The Oblomovites also had little faith in spiritual anxieties; they did not take for life the cycle of eternal aspirations somewhere, towards something; they were afraid, like fire, of passions; and just as in another place the body of people quickly burned out from the volcanic work of the inner, spiritual fire, so the soul of the Oblomovites peacefully, without hindrance, sank into a soft body.

Life did not stigmatize them, like others, neither with premature wrinkles, nor with moral destructive blows and ailments.

Good people understood it only as the ideal of peace and inactivity, disturbed from time to time by various unpleasant accidents, such as: illnesses, losses, quarrels and, by the way, work.

They endured labor as a punishment imposed on our forefathers, but they could not love, and where there was an opportunity, they always got rid of it, finding it possible and proper.

They never embarrassed themselves with any vague mental or moral questions: that is why they always bloomed with health and fun, that is why they lived there for a long time; men at forty looked like young men; the old people did not struggle with a difficult, painful death, but, having lived to the point of impossibility, they died as if furtively, quietly freezing and imperceptibly breathing their last breath. That is why they say that before the people were stronger.

Yes, in fact, it is stronger: before, they were in no hurry to explain to the child the meaning of life and prepare him for it, as for something tricky and serious; they didn’t torment him over books that give rise to a multitude of questions in his head, and questions gnaw at his mind and heart and shorten his life.

The norm of life was ready and taught to them by their parents, and they accepted it, also ready, from grandfather, and grandfather from great-grandfather, with the covenant to observe its integrity and inviolability, like the fire of Vesta. As what was done under grandfathers and fathers, so it was done under the father of Ilya Ilyich, so, perhaps, it is still being done now in Oblomovka.

What did they have to think about and what to worry about, what to learn, what goals to achieve?

Nothing is needed: life, like a calm river, flowed past them; they could only sit on the banks of this river and observe the inevitable phenomena, which, in turn, without a call, appeared before each of them.

And so the imagination of the sleeping Ilya Ilyich began, just as in turn, like living pictures, to open at first the three main acts of life, played out both in his family and with relatives and friends: homeland, wedding, funeral.

Then a motley procession of its merry and sad divisions stretched out: christenings, name days, family holidays, spells, breaking the fast, noisy dinners, kindred congresses, greetings, congratulations, official tears and smiles.

Everything was sent with such precision, so solemnly and solemnly.

He even imagined familiar faces and their mines at different ceremonies, their care and vanity. Give them what delicate matchmaking you want, what kind of solemn wedding or name day you want - they will do it according to all the rules, without the slightest omission. Whom to plant where, what and how to serve, who to go with whom in ceremonies, whether I will accept to observe - in all this no one has ever made the slightest mistake in Oblomovka.

Will the child not be able to go out there? One has only to look at what pink and weighty cupids the local mothers carry and lead. They stand for the children to be plump, white and healthy.

They will retreat from spring, they will not want to know it, if they do not bake at the beginning of its lark. How can they not know and not do it?

Here is their whole life and science, here are all their sorrows and joys: that is why they drive away any other care and sorrow from themselves and do not know other joys; their life was teeming exclusively with these fundamental and inevitable events, which provided endless food for their minds and hearts.

They, with a beating heart with excitement, expected a rite, a feast, a ceremony, and then, having baptized, married or buried a person, they forgot the person himself and his fate and plunged into the usual apathy, from which a new similar event led them - name days, weddings and etc.

As soon as a child was born, the first concern of the parents was, as accurately as possible, without the slightest omission, to perform on him all the rites required by decency, that is, to set a feast after the christening; then began caring for him.

The mother set herself and the nanny a task: to leave a healthy child, to protect him from a cold, from an eye and other hostile circumstances. They worked diligently so that the child was always cheerful and ate a lot.

As soon as they put the young man on his feet, that is, when he no longer needs a nanny, a secret desire already creeps into the heart of the mother to find him a girlfriend - also healthier, rosier.

Again comes the era of rituals, feasts; finally, the wedding; the whole pathos of life was concentrated on this.

Then repetitions began: the birth of children, rites, feasts, until the funeral changed the scenery; but not for long: some faces give way to others, children become youths and at the same time suitors, marry, produce others like themselves - and so life according to this program stretches out in an uninterrupted monotonous fabric, imperceptibly breaking off at the very grave.

True, sometimes other worries were imposed on them, but the Oblomovites met them for the most part with stoic immobility, and the worries, circling over their heads, rushed past, like birds that fly to a smooth wall and, not finding a place to take shelter, flutter their wings in vain. near a solid stone and fly further.

So, for example, once a part of the gallery on one side of the house suddenly collapsed and buried a hen with chickens under its ruins; Aksinya, the wife of Antipas, who would have sat down under the gallery with the bottom, but at that time, fortunately for her, would have gone for the earlobes, would have also got it.

There was a hubbub in the house: everyone came running, from young to old, and were horrified, imagining that instead of a hen with chickens, the lady herself with Ilya Ilyich could walk around here.

Everyone gasped and began to reproach each other for something that had not occurred to them for a long time: to remind one, to order to correct the other, to correct the third.

Everyone was amazed that the gallery collapsed, and on the eve they wondered how it had been holding up for so long!

Worries and talk began about how to improve the matter; they took pity on the mother hen with the chickens and slowly dispersed to their places, strictly forbidding them to bring Ilya Ilyich to the gallery.

Then, about three weeks later, Andryushka, Petrushka, Vaska were ordered to drag the collapsed boards and railings to the sheds so that they would not lie on the road. They lay there until spring.

Every time the old man Oblomov sees them from the window, he will be preoccupied with the thought of an amendment: he will call for a carpenter, start conferring on how best to do it, whether to build a new gallery or break down the remains; then he will let him go home, saying: "Go for yourself, and I will think."

This went on until Vaska or Motka informed the master that, when he, Motka, climbed the remains of the gallery this morning, the corners completely fell behind the walls and looked like they would collapse again.

Then the carpenter was summoned to a final meeting, as a result of which it was decided to support the rest of the surviving gallery for the time being with old fragments, which was done by the end of the same month.

E! Yes, the gallery will go again again! the old man said to his wife. - Look how Fedot beautifully arranged the logs, like the columns of the leader in the house! Now it's good: again for a long time!

Someone reminded him that by the way, it would be nice to fix the gate and fix the porch, otherwise, they say, not only cats and pigs crawl through the steps into the basement.

Yes, yes, it’s necessary, ”Ilya Ivanovich answered solicitously and immediately went to inspect the porch.

In fact, you see how it is completely shaken, ”he said, shaking the porch with his feet like a cradle.

Yes, even then it staggered, as it was made, - someone noticed.

So what was wobbly? - answered Oblomov. - Yes, it didn’t fall apart, even though it’s worth sixteen years without amendment. Glorious then did Luke!.. There was a carpenter, so a carpenter ... died - the kingdom of heaven to him! Today they are spoiled: they won't do it.

And he turned his eyes in the other direction, and the porch, they say, is tottering to this day, and still has not collapsed.

It can be seen that this carpenter Luke was really glorious.

It is necessary, however, to give the owners justice: sometimes in trouble or inconvenience, they will be very worried, even get excited and angry.

How, they say, can you start or leave both? We must take action now. And they only talk about how to repair the bridge, or something, across a ditch, or enclose a garden in one place so that the cattle do not spoil the trees, because part of the wattle fence completely lay on the ground.

Ilya Ivanovich extended his solicitude even to the point that once, while walking in the garden, he personally lifted, groaning and groaning, the wattle fence and ordered the gardener to put up two poles as soon as possible: thanks to this Oblomov’s diligence, the wattle fence stood like that all summer, and only in winter it fell down with snow again.

Finally, it even got to the point that three new boards were laid on the bridge, immediately, as soon as Antip fell off it, with a horse and a barrel, into a ditch. He had not yet had time to recover from a bruise, and the bridge was finished almost anew.

Cows and goats also took a little after the new fall of the wattle fence in the garden: they ate only currant bushes and began to peel off the tenth linden, and did not reach the apple trees, as the order followed to dig the wattle fence as it should and even dig in a groove.

The two cows and the goat, caught in action, also got it: they swelled up their sides nicely!

Ilya Ilyich also dreams of a large dark living room in his parents' house with antique ash armchairs always covered with slipcovers, with a huge, awkward and hard sofa upholstered in a faded blue barrack in spots, and one large leather armchair.

A long winter evening is coming.

The mother sits on the sofa, her legs tucked under her, and lazily knits a baby stocking, yawning and scratching her head with a knitting needle from time to time.

Near her sit Nastasya Ivanovna and Pelageya Ignatievna, and, with their noses in the work, they diligently sew something for the holiday for Ilyusha, or for his father, or for themselves.

The father, with his hands behind his back, walks up and down the room in perfect pleasure, or sits down in an armchair and, after sitting for a while, begins to walk again, attentively listening to the sound of his own steps. Then he sniffs the tobacco, blows his nose and sniffs again.

A single tallow candle burns dimly in the room, and this was allowed only on winter and autumn evenings. In the summer months, everyone tried to go to bed and get up without candles, in daylight.

This was done partly out of habit, partly out of economy. For every item that was not produced at home, but was purchased by purchase, the Oblomovites were extremely stingy.

They will gladly slaughter an excellent turkey or a dozen chickens for the arrival of a guest, but they will not put an extra raisin in the dish and will turn pale, as the same guest will arbitrarily take it into his head to pour himself into a glass of wine.

However, such depravity almost did not happen there: perhaps some tomboy, a person who died in the general opinion, will do this; such a guest will not be allowed into the yard.

No, such manners were not there: a guest there before a triple regale and will not touch anything. He knows very well that a single meal more often contains a request to refuse the offered dish or wine than to taste it.

Even two candles are not lit for everyone: a candle was bought in the city with money and, like all purchased things, was guarded under the key of the hostess herself. Cinders were carefully counted and hidden.

In general, they did not like to spend money there, and, no matter how necessary the thing was, the money for it was always given out with great condolence, and even if the cost was insignificant. A significant waste was accompanied by groans, cries and abuse.

The Oblomovites agreed to endure any kind of inconvenience better, they even got used to not considering them as inconveniences, than to spend money.

From this, the sofa in the living room has long been all stained, from this the leather armchair of Ilya Ivanovich is only called leather, but in fact it is not that bast, not that of rope: there is only one shred of leather left on the back, and the rest has already fallen to pieces for five years and peeled off; That's why, perhaps, the gates are all crooked, and the porch is tottering. But to pay for something, even the most necessary, suddenly two hundred, three hundred, five hundred rubles seemed to them almost suicide.

Hearing that one of the surrounding young landowners went to Moscow and paid three hundred rubles for a dozen shirts, twenty-five rubles for boots and forty rubles for a waistcoat for the wedding, old Oblomov crossed himself and said with an expression of horror, a patter that “this young man should be imprisoned in jail."

In general, they were deaf to the political and economic truths about the need for a quick and lively circulation of capital, about increased productivity and a change in products. In the simplicity of their souls they understood and put into practice the only use of capitals - to keep them in a chest.

On the chairs in the living room, in different positions, the inhabitants or ordinary visitors of the house sit and sniff.

For the most part, deep silence reigns between the interlocutors: everyone sees each other daily; mental treasures are mutually exhausted and explored, and there is little news from outside.

Quiet; only the steps of Ilya Ivanovich’s heavy, homemade boots are heard, the wall clock in the case still taps dully with a pendulum, and a thread torn from time to time by hand or teeth at Pelageya Ignatievna or at Nastasya Ivanovna breaks the deep silence.

So sometimes half an hour will pass, unless someone yawns aloud and crosses his mouth, saying: “Lord have mercy!”

A neighbor yawns behind him, then the next one, slowly, as if on command, opens his mouth, and so on, the contagious play of air in the lungs will bypass everyone, and a tear will break through another.

Or Ilya Ivanovich will go to the window, look in there, and say with some surprise: “Only five more hours, and how dark it is outside!”

Yes, someone will answer, it is always dark at this time; the long evenings are coming.

And in the spring they will be surprised and delighted that long days are coming. And ask why they need these long days, they themselves do not know.

And they shut up again.

And there someone will begin to remove from the candle and suddenly extinguish it - everyone will start up: “Unexpected guest!” someone will surely say.

Sometimes this will lead to a conversation.

Who would this guest be? the hostess will say. - Is it Nastasya Faddeevna? Oh, God bless! Well no; She will not be closer than a holiday. That would be joy! They would hug and cry with her together! And for matins, and for mass together ... Yes, where should I go after her! I’m a gift that I’m younger, and I don’t have to endure so much!

And when, I mean, did she leave us? - asked Ilya Ivanovich. - It seems, after Ilyin's day?

What are you, Ilya Ivanovich! You always get confused! She didn’t even wait for seven, ”the wife corrected.

She, it seems, was here in petrovka, - Ilya Ivanovich objects.

You always are! - the wife will reproachfully say. - Arguing, only embarrassing ...

Well, why wasn't she in Petrovka? Even then, everyone baked pies with mushrooms: she loves ...

So this is Marya Onisimovna: she loves pies with mushrooms - how can you not remember! Yes, and Marya Onisimovna stayed not until Ilyin's day, but before Prokhor and Nikanor.

They kept track of time by holidays, by seasons, by various family and domestic occasions, never referring to months or numbers. Perhaps this was partly due to the fact that, except for Oblomov himself, others all confused both the names of the months and the order of numbers.

The defeated Ilya Ivanovich will fall silent, and again the whole society will plunge into slumber. Ilyusha, having collapsed behind his mother, is also dozing, and sometimes completely asleep.

Yes, - later one of the guests will say with a deep sigh, - here is the husband of Marya Onisimovna, the deceased Vasily Fomich, what he was, God bless him, healthy, but he died! And he didn’t live sixty years - he would have lived a hundred years!

We will all die, to whom when - the will of God! - Pelageya Ignatievna objects with a sigh. - Who dies, but the Khlopovs do not have time to baptize: they say Anna Andreevna gave birth again - this is the sixth.

Is Anna Andreevna alone! - said the hostess. - That's how her brother will be married and the children will go - how much more trouble will there be! And the smaller ones grow up, they also look at the suitors; give your daughters in marriage, but where are the suitors here? Today, you see, everyone wants a dowry, but everything is in money ...

What are you talking about? - Ilya Ivanovich asked, going up to those who were talking.

Yes, we are saying...

And they repeat the story to him.

That's human life! Ilya Ivanovich said instructively. - One dies, another is born, the third gets married, and we are all getting old: not like year after year, day after day does not happen! Why is this so? Wouldn't it matter if every day was like yesterday, yesterday like tomorrow!.. Sad, as you think...

The old grows old, and the young grows! - someone said in a sleepy voice from the corner.

We must pray to God more and not think about anything! the hostess remarked sternly.

True, true, - Ilya Ivanovich responded cowardly, quickly, having taken it into his head to philosophize, and again went to walk back and forth.

For a long time they are silent again; only threads that are threaded back and forth with a needle hiss. Sometimes the hostess will break the silence.

Yes, it's dark outside, she says. - Here, God willing, as soon as we wait for the Christmas time, they will come to visit their own, it will already be more fun, and it is not clear how the evenings will pass. Now, if Malanya Petrovna came, there would be leprosy here! What won't she do! And pour tin, and drown wax, and run out of the gate; the girls will lead me all astray. He will start different games ... such, right!

Yes, lady of the world! - said one of the interlocutors. - In the third year, she invented riding from the mountains, that's how Luka Savich bruised his eyebrow ...

Suddenly everyone started up, looked at Luka Savic and burst into laughter.

How are you, Luka Savic? Come on, come on, tell me! - says Ilya Ivanovich and dies with laughter.

And everyone continues to laugh, and Ilyusha woke up, and he laughed.

Well, what to tell! - says confused Luka Savic. - It's all out Alexei Naumych invented: there was nothing at all.

E! - they all joined in chorus. - But how could there be nothing? Are we really dead? .. And the forehead, forehead, there and still the scar is visible ...

And they laughed.

What are you laughing at? Luka Savic tries to utter in between laughter. - I would ... and not that one ... but that's all Vaska, the robber ... slipped the old sled ... they parted under me ... I and that ...

General laughter covered his voice. In vain did he try to tell the story of his fall: laughter spread throughout the society, penetrated to the hall and to the girls' room, embraced the whole house, everyone remembered the funny incident, everyone laughed for a long time, amicably, unspeakably like the Olympic gods. As soon as they begin to fall silent, someone will pick it up again - and it’s off to write.

Finally, somehow, with difficulty, they calmed down.

And what, are you going to ride about Christmas time, Luka Savich? Ilya Ivanovich asked after a pause.

Again a general burst of laughter, which lasted ten minutes.

Shouldn't Antipka be ordered to make a mountain by fasting? - Oblomov will suddenly say again. - Luka Savich, they say, is a big hunter, he can't wait ...

The laughter of the whole company did not let him finish.

Are those ... sleds intact? - one of the interlocutors uttered hardly from laughter.

Again laughter.

Everyone laughed for a long time, and finally, little by little, they began to calm down: one wiped away his tears, another blew his nose, a third coughed furiously and spat, uttering with difficulty:

Oh you, Lord! The sputum completely choked ... made me laugh then, by God! Such a sin! How he is with his back up, and the floors of the caftan are apart ...

Here followed finally the last, most prolonged roar of laughter, and then everything fell silent. One sighed, the other yawned aloud, with a sentence, and everything fell into silence.

As before, only the swing of the pendulum, the clatter of Oblomov's boots, and the slight crackle of a bitten off thread could be heard.

Suddenly Ilya Ivanovich stopped in the middle of the room, looking worried, holding the tip of his nose.

What is this trouble? Check this out! - he said. - To be dead: the tip of my nose itches all the time ...

Oh you, Lord! - clapping her hands, said the wife. - What kind of dead man is this, if the tip itches? Dead man - when the bridge of the nose itches. Well, Ilya Ivanovich, what you, God be with you, forgetful! That's what you say in public someday or at a party and - you will be ashamed.

And what does it mean, the tip itches? asked the embarrassed Ilya Ivanovich.

Look into the glass. And how it is possible: a dead man!

I confuse everything! - said Ilya Ivanovich. - Where can I mention it: either the side of the nose itches, then from the end, then the eyebrows ...

On the side, - picked up Pelageya Ivanovna, - means to lead; eyebrows itch - tears; forehead - bow; on the right side it itches - for a man, on the left - for a woman; ears itch - it means rain, lips - kissing, mustaches - there are gifts, elbow - sleep in a new place, soles - road ...

Well, Pelageya Ivanovna, well done! - said Ilya Ivanovich. - And then when the oil is cheap, the back of the head, or something, itches ...

The ladies began to laugh and whisper; some of the men were smiling; another burst of laughter was preparing, but at that moment there was heard in the room at the same time what seemed to be the grumbling of a dog and the hissing of a cat when they were about to throw themselves at each other. It was the clock.

E! Yes, nine o'clock! - Ilya Ivanovich said with joyful amazement. - Look, perhaps, and not see how time has passed. Hey Vaska! Vanka! Motka!

Three sleepy faces appeared.

Why don't you set the table? - Oblomov asked with surprise and annoyance. - No, to think about the gentlemen? Well, what are you standing for? Hurry, vodka!

That's why the tip of the nose itched! said Pelageya Ivanovna vividly. - You will drink vodka and look into the glass.

After supper, having smacked their lips and crossed each other, everyone disperses to their beds, and sleep reigns over careless heads.

Ilya Ilyich sees in a dream not one, not two such evenings, but whole weeks, months and years of days and evenings spent like this.

Nothing disturbed the monotony of this life, and the Oblomovites themselves were not burdened by it, because they could not imagine any other way of life; and even if they could imagine, they would turn away from him with horror.

They did not want another life, and they would not love it. They would be sorry if circumstances brought changes to their life, whatever they were. They will be bitten by longing if tomorrow does not look like today, and the day after tomorrow does not look like tomorrow.

Why do they need variety, change, accidents that others ask for? Let others disentangle this cup, but they, the Oblomovites, have nothing to do with it. Let others live as they wish.

After all, accidents, even if there are some benefits, are restless: they require trouble, worries, running around, do not sit still, trade or write - in a word, turn around, is it a joke!

For decades they continued to sniff, doze and yawn or burst into good-natured laughter from village humor, or, gathering in a circle, told what they had seen in a dream at night.

If the dream was terrible - everyone thought, they were afraid in earnest; if it was prophetic, everyone was genuinely happy or sad, depending on whether the dream was sad or comforting. Whether a dream required the observance of some sign, active measures were immediately taken for this.

This is not how they play fools, their trump cards, but on holidays with guests in Boston or lay out grand solitaire, guess at the king of hearts and the queen of clubs, predicting marriage.

Sometimes some Natalya Faddeevna will come to visit for a week or two. First, the old women will sort out the whole neighborhood, who lives in what way, who does what; they will penetrate not only into family life, into backstage life, but into the innermost thoughts and intentions of everyone, get into the soul, scold, discuss unworthy, most unfaithful husbands, then recount different occasions: name day, christening, homeland, who treated what, whom called who was not.

Tired of this, they will start showing new clothes, dresses, coats, even skirts and stockings. The hostess will boast of some canvases, threads, laces of a homemade product.

But this too will be depleted. Then they add coffee, tea, jams. Then they move on to silence.

They sit for a long time, looking at each other, at times they sigh heavily about something. Sometimes someone will cry.

What are you, my mother? another will ask in alarm.

Oh, sad, little dove! - the guest answers with a heavy sigh. - We have angered the Lord God, accursed ones. Do not be good.

Oh, do not scare, do not frighten, dear! interrupts the hostess.

Yes, yes, she continues. - The last days have come: tongue upon tongue will rise, kingdom upon kingdom ... doomsday will come! - Natalya Faddeevna finally speaks out, and both weep bitterly.

There were no grounds for such a conclusion on the part of Natalya Faddeevna, no one rebelled against anyone, there was not even a comet that year, but old women sometimes have dark forebodings.

Occasionally, perhaps this pastime will be interrupted by some accidental event, when, for example, everyone will burn the whole house, from small to large.

There were almost no other diseases to be heard in the house and the village; unless someone runs into some kind of stake in the dark, or curls up from the hayloft, or a board falls off the roof and hits on the head.

But all this rarely happened, and tried-and-tested home remedies were used against such accidents: they would rub the bruised place with bodyagi or the dawn, give them holy water to drink or whisper - and everything will pass.

But fumes happened frequently. Then everyone rolls side by side on the beds: groans and groans are heard; one puts cucumbers on his head and ties it with a towel, another puts cranberries in his ears and sniffs horseradish, a third goes out into the cold in one shirt, a fourth just lies unconscious on the floor.

This happened periodically once or twice a month, because they did not like to put heat into the chimney for nothing and closed the stoves when such lights were still running in them, as in Robert the Devil. Not a single bed

it was impossible to lay hands on a single stove: just look, a bubble would jump up.

Once, only the monotony of their life was broken by a truly accidental event.

When, having rested after a difficult dinner, everyone gathered for tea, suddenly an Oblomov peasant came back from the city, and already he got it, got it out of his bosom, finally forcibly pulled out a crumpled letter addressed to Ilya Ivanovich Oblomov.

Everyone was stunned; the hostess even changed a little in her face; Everyone's eyes were fixed and their noses were stretched out towards the letter.

What a curiosity! Who is it from? said the lady at last, coming to her senses.

Oblomov took the letter and tossed it in his hands in bewilderment, not knowing what to do with it.

Yes, where did you get it? he asked the man. - Who gave you?

And in the yard where I pestered in the city, you hear, - the peasant answered, - they came from the post office twice to ask if there were any Oblomov peasants: listen, there is a letter to the master.

Well, first of all, I hid: the soldier left with a letter. Yes, the deacon from Verkhlyov saw me, and he said. They came suddenly. As they suddenly came in a row, they began to swear and gave the letter, they took another nickel. I asked what, they say, should I do with him, where should I put him? So they ordered to give your mercy.

And you wouldn’t take it,” the lady remarked angrily.

I didn't take it either. What, they say, we need a letter - we do not need. We, they say, were not punished to take letters - I don’t dare: go ahead, with a letter! Yes, the soldier went to swear painfully: he wanted to complain to the authorities; I took it.

Fool! - said the lady.

From whom would it be? Oblomov said thoughtfully, examining the address. - The hand seems to be familiar, right!

And the letter went from hand to hand. Rumors and guesses began: from whom and what could it be about? Everyone finally came to a standstill.

Ilya Ivanovich ordered to find glasses: they were looking for an hour and a half. He put them on and was already thinking of opening the letter.

That's enough, don't open it, Ilya Ivanovich, - his wife stopped him with fear, - who knows what kind of letter it is? maybe even more terrible, some kind of trouble. You see, what kind of people have become today! Tomorrow or the day after tomorrow you will have time - it will not leave you.

And the letter with the glasses was hidden under lock and key. Everyone took up tea. It would have lain there for years if it had not been too unusual a phenomenon and had not excited the minds of the Oblomovites. Over tea and the next day, all they had to do was talk about the letter.

Finally, they could not stand it, and on the fourth day, having gathered in a crowd, they printed it out with embarrassment. Oblomov looked at the signature.

“Radishchev,” he read. - E! Yes, this is from Philip Matveich!

BUT! E! That's who! rose from all sides. How is he still alive to this day? Come on, you're not dead yet! Well, thank God! What is he writing?

Send it, send it to him! - everyone spoke. - I have to write a letter.

So two weeks passed.

I must write! - Ilya Ivanovich repeated to his wife. - Where is the recipe?

And where he? - answered the wife. - Still to be found. Wait, what's the rush? Here, God willing, we will wait for the holiday, we will break the fast, then you will write; won't leave yet...

In fact, I’d better write about the holiday, ”said Ilya Ivanovich.

At the party, the topic of writing was again discussed. Ilya Ivanovich was about to write completely. He retired to his office, put on his glasses and sat down at the table.

There was a deep silence in the house; people were not ordered to stomp and make noise. "Barin writes!" - they all said in such a timidly respectful voice, which they say when there is a dead person in the house.

He was just about to type out: “Dear sir,” slowly, crookedly, with a trembling hand and with such caution, as if he were doing some dangerous business, when his wife appeared to him.

Searched, searched - there is no recipe, - she said. - We must also look in the bedroom in the closet. How to send a letter?

With mail it is necessary, - answered Ilya Ivanovich.

And what goes there?

Oblomov took out an old calendar.

Forty kopecks, he said.

Here, throw forty kopecks on trifles! she remarked. - We'd better wait, if there will be an opportunity from the city to go there. You told the men to find out.

And, in fact, it’s better if it happens,” answered Ilya Ivanovich, and, flicking his pen on the table, he thrust it into the inkwell and took off his glasses.

Really, it's better, - he concluded, - he won't leave yet: we'll have time to send.

It is not known whether Philip Matveyevich waited for the recipe.

Ilya Ivanovich will sometimes take a book in his hands - it doesn't matter to him, any. He did not even suspect an essential need in reading, but considered it a luxury, such a thing that one can easily do without, just as one can have a picture on the wall, one may not have it, one can go for a walk, one may not go: from this he doesn't care what the book is; he looked at her as if she were a thing intended for entertainment, out of boredom and nothing to do.

I haven’t read a book for a long time, he will say or sometimes change the phrase: “Let me read a book,” he will say, or simply, in passing, accidentally see a small pile of books inherited from his brother and take it out without choosing what will come across. Will he get Golikov Newest whether dream interpretation, Kheraskova Rossiada, or the tragedies of Sumarokov, or, finally, the third-year statements - he reads everything with equal pleasure, saying at times:

See what you've come up with! What a robber! Oh, so empty for you!

These exclamations referred to authors, a title which in his eyes had no respect whatsoever; he even adopted for himself the half-contempt for writers that the people of the old days had for them. He, like many then, revered the writer as nothing more than a merry fellow, a reveler, a drunkard and a joker, like a dancer.

Sometimes he reads out loud from third-year newspapers, for everyone, or so he informs them of the news.

Here they write from Gaga, he will say, that His Majesty the King has deigned to return safely from a short trip to the palace, and at the same time he will look through his glasses at all the listeners.

In Vienna, such and such an envoy handed over his letters of credit.

And here they write, - he read more, - that the works of Mrs. Janlis were translated into Russian.

That's all, tea, they translate for this, ”one of the listeners, a small landowner, notices,“ in order to extort money from our brother, a nobleman.

And poor Ilyusha goes and goes to Stolz to study. As soon as he wakes up on Monday, he is already attacked by melancholy. He hears the sharp voice of Vaska, who shouts from the porch:

Antipka! Pawn the skewbald: take the barchonka to the German!

His heart flutters. He sad comes to his mother. She knows why and begins to gild the pill, secretly sighing herself about being separated from him for a whole week.

They don’t know what to feed him that morning, they bake him buns and pretzels, let him go with pickles, biscuits, jams, marshmallows of various and other all sorts of dry and wet delicacies, and even food supplies. All this was sold in the forms that the Germans feed low-fat.

You won’t get fed up there,” the Oblomovites said, “they’ll give you lunch with soup, and roast, and potatoes, butter for tea, and for dinner, then morgen fries- Wipe your nose.

However, Ilya Ilyich dreams more of such Mondays when he does not hear Vaska's voice ordering to lay the pegash, and when his mother meets him for tea with a smile and with good news:

You won't go today; Thursday is a big holiday: is it worth driving back and forth for three days?

Or sometimes he suddenly announces to him: "Today is parental week - not up to learning: we will bake pancakes."

Otherwise, on Monday morning, his mother will look at him intently and say:

Something in your eyes is stale today. Are you healthy? - and shakes his head.

The crafty boy is healthy, but he is silent.

Sit at home this week, - she will say, - and there - what God will give.

And everyone in the house was imbued with the conviction that learning and parental Saturday should not coincide in any way together, or that the holiday on Thursday is an insurmountable barrier to learning for the whole week.

Is it only sometimes that a servant or a girl, who gets it for a barchonka, will grumble:

Wow, darling! Will you soon fail to your German?

Another time, Antipka will suddenly appear on a familiar pegash to the German, in the middle or at the beginning of the week, for Ilya Ilyich.

They say Marya Savishna or Natalya Faddeevna came to visit or the Kuzovkovs with their children, so please go home!

And for three weeks Ilyusha stays at home, and there, you see, it’s not far to Holy Week, and there is a holiday, and for some reason someone in the family decides that they don’t study on St. Thomas’s week; there are two weeks left until the summer - it’s not worth driving, and in the summer the German himself is resting, so it’s better to postpone until the fall.

Look, Ilya Ilyich will take a walk in six months, and how he will grow up at that time! How fat! How well he sleeps! They do not stop looking at him in the house, noticing, on the contrary, that, returning on Saturday from the German, the child is thin and pale.

How long until sin? - said the father and mother. “Learning won’t go away, but you can’t buy health; health is the most precious thing in life. You see, he returns from school as if from a hospital: all the fat disappears, he is so thin ... and a naughty one: he just needs to run!

Yes, - the father will notice, - learning is not your brother: at least someone will turn into a ram's horn!

And the tender parents continued to look for excuses to keep their son at home. For pretexts, and except for holidays, the matter did not stop. In winter it seemed cold to them, in summer it was also not good to go in the heat, and sometimes it would rain, in autumn slush interfered. Sometimes Antipka seems somehow doubtful: drunk, not drunk, but somehow wildly looking: there would be no trouble, he would get stuck or break off somewhere.

The Oblomovites tried, however, to give as much legitimacy as possible to these pretexts in their own eyes, and especially in the eyes of Stolz, who did not spare both to the eyes and behind the eyes. donnerwetters for such a prank.

The times of the Prostakovs and Skotinins are long gone. Proverb: Learning is light and ignorance is darkness- already wandered around the villages and villages, along with books carried by second-hand booksellers.

The old people understood the benefits of enlightenment, but only its external benefits. They saw that everyone had already begun to go out into the world, that is, to acquire ranks, crosses and money only through learning; that the old clerks, busy businessmen in the service, grown old in long-standing habits, quotation marks and hooks, had a bad time.

Ominous rumors began to circulate about the need not only for literacy, but also for other sciences, hitherto unheard of in everyday life. Between the titular adviser and the collegiate assessor a gulf opened up, a bridge across which some kind of diploma served.

Old servants, children of habit and pets of bribes, began to disappear. Many who did not have time to die were expelled for unreliability, others were put on trial; the happiest were those who, having waved their hand at the new order of things, tucked away kindly and healthily into the corners they had acquired.

The Oblomovs understood this and understood the benefits of education, but only this obvious benefit. They still had a vague and distant idea of ​​the inner need for learning, and therefore they wanted to catch for the time being some brilliant advantages for their Ilyusha.

They also dreamed of an embroidered uniform for him, imagined him as an adviser in the chamber, and his mother even as a governor; but they would like to achieve all this somehow cheaper, with various tricks, to get around the stones and obstacles secretly scattered along the path of enlightenment and honors, without bothering to jump over them, that is, for example, to study lightly, not to exhaustion of soul and body, not until the loss of the blessed fullness acquired in childhood, but only so as to comply with the prescribed form and somehow obtain a certificate in which it would be said that Ilyusha passed all the sciences and arts.

This whole Oblomov system of education met with strong opposition in the Stolz system. The struggle was fierce on both sides. Stolz directly, openly and persistently hit his opponents, and they evaded the blows with the above and other tricks.

The victory was not decided in any way; perhaps German perseverance would have overcome the stubbornness and rigidity of the Oblomovites, but the German encountered difficulties on his own side, and victory was not destined to be decided on either side. The fact is that the son of Stolz spoiled Oblomov, either prompting him lessons, or making translations for him.

Ilya Ilyich clearly sees both his home life and life with Stolz.

He will just wake up at home, as Zakharka, later his famous valet Zakhar Trofimych, is already standing by his bed.

Zakhar, as he used to be a nanny, pulls on his stockings, puts on his shoes, and Ilyusha, already a boy of fourteen, only knows that he is offering him this or that leg when lying down; and if something seems wrong to him, then he will succumb to Zakharka with his foot in the nose.

If the dissatisfied Zakharka takes it into his head to complain, he will receive another mallet from the elders.

Then Zakharka scratches her head, pulls on her jacket, carefully slipping Ilya Ilyich's hands into the sleeves so as not to disturb him too much, and reminds Ilya Ilyich that one must do one thing or another: get up in the morning, wash, etc.

If Ilya Ilyich wants anything, he has only to blink - already three or four servants rush to fulfill his desire; whether he drops something, whether he needs to get a thing, but if he doesn’t get it, whether to bring something, whether to run after something: sometimes, like a frisky boy, he just wants to rush and redo everything himself, and then suddenly his father and mother and three aunts in five voices and shout:

What for? Where? What about Vaska, and Vanka, and Zakharka? Hey! Vaska! Vanka! Zaharka! What are you looking at, bro? Here I am!..

And Ilya Ilyich will never be able to do anything for himself.

Later, he found that it was much quieter, and he himself learned to shout: “Hey, Vaska! Vanka! give it, give it another! I don't want this, I want this! Run, get it!"

At times, the gentle solicitude of his parents bored him.

Whether he runs down the stairs or across the yard, suddenly ten desperate voices will be heard after him: “Ah, ah! Support stop! He will fall, he will hurt himself ... stop, stop!

Will he think of jumping out into the canopy in winter or opening the window - again shouting: “Ay, where? How can you? Don't run, don't walk, don't open: you'll kill yourself, you'll catch a cold...

And Ilyusha remained sadly at home, cherished like an exotic flower in a greenhouse, and, like the last one under glass, he grew slowly and listlessly. Seeking manifestations of power turned inward and drooped, withering.

And sometimes he wakes up so cheerful, fresh, cheerful; he feels: something is playing in him, seething, as if some kind of demon has settled in, which teases him now to climb on the roof, then sit on the savraska and gallop into the meadows where they mow hay, or sit on the fence on horseback, or tease village dogs; or suddenly you want to start running through the village, then into the field, along the gullies, into the birch forest, and in three leaps rush to the bottom of the ravine, or follow the boys to play snowballs, try your hand.

The imp was tempting him: he was holding on, holding on, finally could not stand it, and suddenly, without a cap, in winter, he jumped from the porch into the yard, from there through the gate, grabbed a clod of snow in both hands and rushed to a bunch of boys.

The fresh wind cuts his face like that, frost stings behind his ears, his mouth and throat smelled of cold, and his chest was filled with joy - he rushes where his legs came from, he himself squeals and laughs.

Here are the boys: he bangs with snow - by: there is no skill; he just wanted to grab another snowball, when a whole block of snow covered his whole face: he fell; and it hurts him out of habit, and merrily, and he laughs, and there are tears in his eyes ...

And there is a hubbub in the house: Ilyusha is gone! Scream, noise. Zakharka jumped out into the yard, followed by Vaska, Mitka, Vanka - everyone was running, confused, around the yard.

Two dogs rushed after them, grabbing them by the heels, which, as you know, cannot indifferently see a running person.

People screaming, screaming, dogs barking rush through the village.

Finally, they ran into the boys and began to administer justice: some by the hair, some by the ears, another slapped on the back of the head; they also threatened their fathers.

Then they took possession of the barchonk, wrapped him in a captured sheepskin coat, then in his father's fur coat, then in two blankets, and solemnly brought him home in his arms.

At home they despaired of seeing him already, considering him dead; but at the sight of him, alive and unharmed, the joy of his parents was indescribable. They thanked the Lord God, then gave him mint to drink, elderberry there, and raspberries in the evening, and kept him in bed for three days, and one thing could be useful for him: to play snowballs again ...